8x03 The Long Night
by Shelley G
Summary: Story 3 of 6. Season 8 reimagined. The long night has begun.
1. Chapter 1: Tyrion

Tyrion sulked in the back of the bouncing wagon, mentally taking back every complaint he'd thought about the ride to Winterfell from White Harbor in a plush, royal carriage. That had been a luxurious dream by comparison. Still… if the alternative was to be ripped apart by the dead, he supposed this was preferable.

His ego brutalized after being unmanned by his queen and sent away like a worthless cripple, left him quite sure he'd prefer anything the dead had to offer to this shameful retreat. Even his retreat, he thought he could have endured if he could see the point in it. If he truly thought she was sending him away to preserve his mind, he could have soothed his wounded ego. But no… What was the point in preserving his advice when she didn't heed it. It seemed that despite his best efforts, his counsel went in one ear and out the other.

He gaze strayed once again to Sansa, studying her was the only shred of pleasure on his ride. She'd started out on horseback, but quickly gave up her steed when she noticed a pregnant woman walking.

Despite the tutelage of Cersei and Littlefinger, he was surprised by how often the softer sentiments of her kinder role models slipped through the redheaded beauty's deceptively icy exterior. In the quiet, unobserved moments, he saw in her the honor of Ned Stark, the kindness of Margery Tyrell, and the maternal warmth of Catelyn Tully. How different she was from the naive and quivering child he'd promised not to touch even as she stood beside what might have been their marriage bed.

Where would they be now if she'd remained his bride? He could almost picture a couple of strawberry blonde brats running around Casterly Rock, but he knew that was a far-flung dream. If she'd remained his bride, it was as likely as not they'd both be dead now. And if they weren't, there was no guarantee that she ever could have learned to love him. To this day, she might still have sent him off to find carnal comfort in the arms of whores. If she hadn't learned that you couldn't always tell a monster just by looking at it, and that sometimes those with the most monstrous faces had the best hearts, she would have had no reason to change her opinion of him and she wouldn't be the woman before him now. A wolf raised by lions. But she'd returned to her pack stronger for it.

Even now she walked side by side with Jon's dire wolf. The wolf, like its master, seemed aware of the beautiful girl's every move, letting out low growls whenever it felt anyone drew too close to her. He didn't blame Jon or the wolf for the urge to protect her. Despite having proven capable of protecting herself, she was a treasure worthy of protection. At least Jon seemed aware of what he was blessed enough to possess. Tyrion hadn't recognized her value when she was his to hold. If he had it to do over again, he would have done whatever it took to make sure she remained his.

Sansa looked up and caught Tyrion staring. She gave him a slight nod in greeting.

"We should have stayed." He called out to her over the grinding, whining wagon wheels.

She tilted her head, as she tried to figure out what he'd said. She quickened her stride to bring herself closer to the wagon.

"I'm sorry?"

"We should have stayed." He said again, looking into those lovely blue eyes, he could see why his brother, so long enchanted by green eyes had been swayed by a pair of sapphires. "If we were up there, we might see something everyone else is missing. Something that might make a difference."

Sansa let out a sad, humorless laugh.

"What?" Tyrion riled at her lack of support. "Remember the Battle of Blackwater? I brought us through the Mud Gate."

"And got your face cut in half." She reminded him.

"And it made a difference." Tyrion insisted. "If I was there…"

"You'd die." Sansa said, though rather than a rebuke, it felt like a gentle kiss of kindness. She was glad he was here, glad he wasn't doomed to a pointless death. And he was glad that she was glad. "There's nothing you could have done." She cleared her throat to push down a swell of emotion. "Nothing either of us could do."

"You might be surprised at the lengths I'd go to avoid joining the Army of the Dead." He told her. "I could think of no organization less suited to my talents."

"Witty remarks won't make a difference, Lord Tyrion." Sansa said and gave him a sad smile. "We are of no use to those we'd like to protect. Staying out of the way is the best thing we can do now."

"But…" He began to protest, despite knowing that she had a point.

"It's the truth." She reached down and scratched Ghost behind the ear, but Tyrion thought her mind had likely drifted back to the walls of Winterfell and the man who held her heart.

Lucky bastard… though not a bastard, not really.

"It's the most heroic thing we can do now," She said, breaking the silence, "look the truth in the face."

"Maybe we should have stayed married." Tyrion teased, knowing well that she belonged to another and likely wouldn't have reciprocated his wish even if she wasn't spoken for.

"You were the best of them." Sansa admitted.

The best of them. The best of the men who had sought to claim her. He thought of the company that put him in. Joffery… a sadistic little tyrant granted too much power by a cruel trick of the gods and his mother's scheming. Littlefinger… an obsession so strong it transferred from mother to daughter. Ramsay… Where to even start? Yes, he could see she was right. He was certainly the best of them. Just as Daenerys was the best of the Targaryens. But in truth, better was not the same as good.

Yes, he was the best of the bad men who'd desecrated her innocence. What a great honor.

Sansa reached out and placed her hand upon his on the sideboard of the wagon. "It wouldn't work between us."

He raised an eyebrow, surprised by this. "Why not?"

"The Dragon Queen." Sansa squeezed his hand gently, and he wondered if, perhaps, in a different life his chances with her hadn't be as impossible as he'd imagined, if not for Jon.

"Your divided loyalties would become a problem." She assured him.

Tyrion chuckled softly to himself. If only she knew how much of a problem those divided loyalties were to him even now. He'd sworn himself to Daenerys and been named her Hand. But even now, he could see Jon, and particularly Jon with Sansa by his side, would be far better suited to the throne. He supposed it was poetic, for another Lannister to be caught between loyalty to a monarch and the good of the realm. He'd always looked to his brother's example, perhaps he should do so once again.

A shadow fell across Sansa's fair face. Ghost whined and the horses stamped and snorted in protest.

Tyrion looked up, half expecting to spot Drogon soaring overhead, blotting out the sun. But no, no dragon was responsible for this unnatural dark. Instead, it was as though something had blotted out the sun itself, leaving only a painfully bright ring around a black abyss.

The caravan had backed up to a stop as everyone slowly looked up at the unnatural dark

"What in the name of the gods?" Sansa whispered, sinking to one knee to soothe Ghost who snarled despite her reassurance.

Tyrion struggled to his feet and hopped down from the wagon, looking around at their surrounding. The gleaming white snow had dimmed to gray in the shadowy light. It looked closer to dusk than early afternoon. And everything was still. Too still. Not a single bird or animal rustled among the trees and bushes.

"Well, this can't be good." He observed, resting a hand on Sansa's shoulder which he hoped offered more reassurance than he actually felt. "Stay here. I'll take a look."

Sansa nodded.

Then a scream split the air.

"Out of my way." The Greyjoy lad elbowed his way through the crowd running like someone had lit a fire beneath his feet. He nearly plowed down Tyrion as he raced to Sansa's side. He hoisted her to her feet and dragged her away without a word. She looked back at Tyrion, but did not resist Theon's lead.

Tyrion watched her go and then turned back in the direction of the unrest. The screams and general panic was growing. His heart pounded in his chest and his throat tightened. He could scramble onto a horse and ride the other direction. It would be challenging to hold on without a customized saddle, but he could manage.

But no… yet another downside of self-betterment. A desire to preserve the greater good.

He pushed through the restless crowd in the direction of the mounting panic. His tongue felt dry and heavy in his mouth and his neck felt hot and sweaty despite the chill.

When he reached the edge of the crowd, he froze. His bowels turned to water and if the shock hadn't locked his legs in place, he would have fled. _Self-betterment be damned._

He'd been prepared for the dead. He'd even been prepared for the sight of a wight dragon flying overhead, spouting icy fire.

But not this.

Not spiders larger than draft horses with icy appendages and eight glittering blue eyes that glowed in the growing dark.

And their small mortal company consisted of the old and young and the women. The ill and unable to fight.

Guarded by a handful of Ironborn.

They were well and truly fucked.

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**Welcome to episode three! If you're new here, I recommend going back and checking out episodes one and two! Otherwise, I'm glad you're still with me! Thank you to all the amazing readers who have supported me on the journey so far!**

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	2. Chapter 2: Daenerys

Daenerys paced her chambers, her hands still shaking from her confrontation with Varys. He openly opposed her orders, his words a shade from treasonous. She didn't know what she'd done to turn him against her. While she had seen too many betrayals to trust anyone fully, she had let herself believe that her advisors truly believed in her. Across the sea they surely had. Across the sea, she'd been mother and savior to thousands. She'd been beloved by both the people and her advisors.

When had that began to change and degrade? When had their faith begun to wither and their support of her wane? She knew that answer, even if she couldn't understand the rest. It had started upon her arrival in the North. They were turning against her one by one and it was all the doing of that Stark bitch.

She stopped before the fireplace and stared into the flames. For a single moment, she wished the fire would spread and catch, engulfing and devouring Winterfell.

Just burn it all.

Burn away everything around her, everything but her, until she was alone with her children.

She was a dragon, after all, and like her children she did not like the North.

She did not like the cold eyes that looked at her like she'd done a great wrong just by claiming her birthright.

She did not like the North's lady.

She did not like that her own advisor had stood against her in favor of championing the plan of that said lady. She did not like that even her own devoted Greyworm had agreed that Sansa's was a good plan.

It was as though they had all forgotten that she was a conqueror. She had brought cities to their knees. She knew what it took to win a battle. What did Sansa Stark know? Had she ever ridden into battle? Daenerys had and she would again. And where was Sansa Stark? Even now, the Lady of Winterfell was riding away from danger instead of toward it. Like the coward she was.

A small part of her whispered that Jon wouldn't love the Stark girl if she was a coward, but Daenerys didn't like that part, so she pushed it down to be forgotten.

The more pressing problem was Varys. Descent within her ranks could not be tolerated. Discontent was like an infection. It would spread and destroy the whole if it wasn't burned out.

Her spymaster had been right, his punishment could wait until after the battle, but it would come. It had to. If left unchecked, the treasons inclinations of one man could become her undoing. She had not come this far and sacrificed so much to settle for less than the Iron Throne.

She had hoped to be welcomed home with open arms, but that was not to be. She could see now that if she wanted her birthright, she would have to take it, like the conqueror she'd learned to be.

"Daenerys…"

She looked around to find Jon standing in the door of her chambers. He had not come to her chambers once in their time at Winterfell, and despite knowing that his heart lay elsewhere, for just a moment her heart sped up with hope.

He must have seen the hope in her face because he took a slight step back.

Her heart tightened in frustration at her own inclination to naivety. Why was it so easy to fall in love and so very difficult to fall out?

"Yes, what is it?" She snapped.

"The sun… It's gone dark." He explained. "The dead are here or nearly so."

Daenerys grabbed her gloves off her table and slipped them on.

"Daenerys…" Jon started, his eyes penitent.

She gave him an icy look. "You forget yourself, Jon Snow. I am your queen."

Jon looked taken aback by this but nodded. "Yes, your grace. I was just going to say…"

"I don't want to hear what you have to say." She said stiffly. "You will ride Rhaegal because he permits you to do so. Do not imagine that it means anything else."

She wasn't entirely sure if her reprimand was meant more for him or for her own aching heart, but he gave her a respectful bow regardless.

"Well, your grace, we'd best get to the dragons."

Daenerys nodded and brushed past him, taking quick steps, a shade slower than jogging. She had no doubt he was right at her heel, but she didn't slow or look back to check.

As they hurried up the hill to where the dragons lounged, she glanced up at the unnaturally dark sky. The last time she'd seen something so strange, it was when the bleeding star hung high over head as she stepped, unburned, from Khal Drogo's funeral pyre.

She'd come to see that day as her rebirth, when she bloomed from a powerless child to the woman who could one day take back the Iron Throne. Despite the foreboding appearance of the dark sun above, she chose to see it as another good omen. This would be the day when they brought down the army of the dead and she could return to her mission to reclaim the seven kingdoms. It was her destiny, the purpose for which she'd been born, once amidst a storm and the second time from fire.

She mounted Drogon and took to the sky.

She swept over Winterfell and up to the lookout where they would wait for the Night King and take down her fallen child together.

As Rhaegal touched down beside her, she looked over to Jon to get a read on his mind. She expected to find him looking to her as well, she was, after all, his queen. If not her, than perhaps to the North from where the dead would approach.

But no.

His gaze had drifted East. the direction in which those who could not had retreated. The direction in which Sansa had gone. She expected another hot burst of anger, but it didn't come.

_When the sun rises in the West and sets in the East…._

She knew what it was to lose the one she loved with all her heart. She hadn't planned to love Drogo, but she had learned to. When he had died, she felt as though a part of herself had literally been cut away.

Perhaps, even now, Jon was suffering some fraction of that loss, watching his love ride away with no guarantee that he would see her again.

Her hand went instinctively to her stomach, which would never bear a living child. Else Drogo would return to her, which was impossible. What she wouldn't give to have her love returned to her.

Could she hate a man for feeling the same about the woman he loved, simply because that woman wasn't her?

If she could have Drogo back, would she not have tossed Jon aside for even a single day?

No, she did not forgive his betrayal, but as the initial heat of anger had faded, she did not hate him for it. He was a good man, trapped in the tangled web of love and honor. She cleared her throat to get his attention.

Jon looked over at her.

"We will win." She assured him.

He pressed his mouth into a thin lipped smile, but she saw a flash of gratitude in his eyes.

She would forgive Jon, she decided. She would forgive him for misusing her and loving his sister and he would suffer no consequence for that betrayal. In so doing, she would discharge the debt she owed Sansa.

Should they all survive, so long as the Northern Lady gave up the North and did not cross her again, she would let the two of them be. A life for a life.

But if Sansa continued to cross her… well, in that case, she'd surely wake the dragon.

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**Sorry for the late update today! I've been having a bit of a rough week. But here it is! I hope you all enjoy! And thank you so much for your continued support, it means the world to me!**

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	3. Chapter 3: Davos

Winterfell had bustled with noise and activity since the arrival of Daenerys and her army, but not like this. The preparations over the past weeks had been like the rhythmic lapping of waves on a calm shore. This was a hurricane. The courtyard throbbed with the pounding of soldiers marching into position. Davos head pounded in time with the chaos. He didn't think he'd ever seen any preparations for war quite to this scale.

During the Battle of Blackwater Bay, he'd been aboard a ship. Warfare at sea was an entirely different beast. There was a calm before the storm at sea. Silence until the first cannonball was fired. Then when they'd taken back Winterfell, but that had been different as well. They'd gone to war that time. But now… now war was coming for them.

He climbed up the stairs, his old joints protesting the cold as he made his way up to the wall. Once at the top, he looked out as the Unsullied fell into line behind the first trench. A half doze torches burned, waiting to light the trench until the dead drew within sight. No need for them to start burning sooner than necessary. The later they lit the trench, the longer it would burn during the actual battle.

Behind the shield wall of the Unsullied waited the archers, ready to bring down the first wave of the dead with their dragon glass tipped arrows. Behind the supply of dragon glass arrows were regular arrows prepped to be lit on fire.

Beyond the trenches, on the hills far to the the left and right, the Dothraki waited upon horseback to charge the army of the dead in the open field from the sides and back to break their focus should they break through the first line of trenches.

The catapults stood behind the third trench, closest to the castle wall, so as to be of use as long as possible.

As they were all well aware, the army of the dead was vast. Their only hope was to thin the ranks as much as possible while Daenerys and Jon kept the Night King's attention drawn away and, with any luck, they'd find a way to bring icy bastard down.

Davos had to squint to make out what is happening down in the courtyard as well as beyond the castle wall. The light seemed to be dying with every passing moment and with it any trace of warmth. He shifted closer to one of Varys's fires, hoping to chase off some small part of the chill.

A flash of movement beyond the furthermost trench caught Davos's eye. _The dead… _No, not the dead. A lone rider from the East. A flash of red in the firelight made his chest tighten with a strange combination of rage and relief. It couldn't be... He'd told the red witch what he'd do to her if he ever saw her again. She wouldn't risk it. Would she?

His eyes stung as long pushed down memories of Shireen swam to the surface. Burned alive. And for what? A fickle god who saw fit to let Stannis's forces be struck down by his enemies after the foolish would-be king saw fit to sacrifice his own child to the Lord of Light.

_Oh Shireen…_

That child had a good heart and a sweet smile, and the patience of a saint. Enough patience to teach an old smuggler to read. He'd loved the child, loved her perhaps more than he'd loved her Lord Father who he had respected and admired for years. He could forgive Stannis for any number of sins, but not that one. Not sending sweet, innocent Shireen to the pyre because his priestess said it should be so.

Without knowing what he was doing, his legs carried him down from the wall and he stood before the main gate as it swung open to grant the witch entrance. His hand slid down to the the knife at his belt. It was no dragon glass, so practically useless against the dead, but it would do the trick on Melisandre. She was, after all, human... if barely.

The Red Priestess reigned in her steed, her gaze finding Davos as she did so, as though she'd already known he would be there, waiting. She slid off her steed and tied the wheezing beast to a hitching post. How far had she come to get here? How hard had she pushed that poor beast?

Davos didn't move. Part of him wished to cross the space between them and slit her pale throat above her gaudy necklace. He wasn't a violent man by nature, but he would enjoy watching her life's blood stain the white snow at her feet crimson. That would be justice. Yes, that would be a fitting end for the vile woman.

But it wouldn't bring back Shireen.

Nothing could do that.

Melisandre studied him for a long moment before crossing the space between them and standing before him as though to submit to his judgment.

"You came back." He said, his voice far more steady than he'd expected. "I told you what I would do to you and you came back anyway."

"I did." She said, her voice not quite as steady as his own.

"I should kill you where you stand." He hissed, barely able to keep his hand at his side.

"The Lord of—" Melisandre started.

"I don't give a fuck about your Lord of Light." Davos said. "I don't care what he wants."

"He cares about what you want." Melisandre said. "Snow must not fall in Winterfell this long night."

Her words bore the weight of prophecy. But he'd heard her speak that way before and he'd seen her proven wrong.

"That doesn't change—"

"No, it doesn't change anything." Melisandre cut him off. "We both know that I am guilty of the crime you would have me die for, Ser Davos, and I give you my word that I will die for them. I swear to you… by the Lord of Light… and the Princess Shireen. I will be dead before the dawn."

Davos considered the Red Priestess for a long moment. While she looked no different than he remembered, she seemed older, as though the weight of all her many mistakes had caught up with her and come to rest on her shoulders. As much as he wanted to blindly hate her, he couldn't help the flicker of sympathy that kindled within him. He knew what it was to regret the path you took but not be able to go back. If he could go back, might he have been better able to advise Stannis away from his folly? Might Shireen still be alive? Might his own son as well?

No, there was no peace to be had by going down that road. If any dead where going to torment him, let it be the army at their door. At least of those creatures deaths, his hands were clean.

"Then, for Shireen, I'll let you live." His said, his throat tightening painfully as he spoke that sweet child's name. "And for her sake, you'll make sure her death meant something.

Melisandre's eyes glistened with what might have been tears as she gave him a stiff nod. He didn't wait to see if any tears escaped. Let the blood on her hands torment her until the dead arrived. It was the least she deserved. The very least.

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**Here's you're update! A day late, but here it is! Sorry for the delay, I was sick yesterday, so my motivation was severely lacking, but I'm feeling much better now!**

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	4. Chapter 4: Brienne

Brienne fastened Widow's Wail into Jaime's metal hand and double checked all the fastenings of his armor. She wasn't about to have him die for some stupid reason like poorly positioned armor. No. He wasn't going to die at all, not if she had any say in the matter.

But she wouldn't…

She'd be far from him, should he need her.

She swallowed down the lump building in her throat.

The horns of war bellowed from from the wall, summoning the troops to their positions. She'd been so proud when she'd been granted a position of command. But that was before Jaime arrived in Winterfell. Before the one-handed fool volunteered to guard the boy that the Night King himself would be coming for. Now, more than anything, she wished to spend this night in the godswood by Jaime's side. Perhaps she could not turn the tides of the war singlehandedly, but she thought… no… hoped that she could protect the man she loved from imminent death. After all, there was nothing more hateful than failing to protect the one you loved. She'd failed to save Renly and she'd been by his side at the time. She'd be far from Jaime. What if… what if he needed her and she wasn't there. Could she survive that failure a second time, when this time the one she loved was far dearer to her heart?

No… She couldn't think on that now.

Duty called her beyond the wall and honor compelled him to the godswood. She would have to trust in the goodness of the gods who had always seemed rather fickle to her. She had to trust that they would guard the man she loved when she could not.

She felt his eyes on her as she checked one of his straps for the third time, but she couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze.

"Brienne."

"Pod will be with you." She told him. "He'll have your back. If you…"

"Brienne." Jaime said a little more insistently.

"He's grown into a good fighter. He'll be of use…"

"Brienne." Jaime took her face in his free hand and made her look at him.

Her eyes burned but she refused to cry. Not over something that hadn't and might not happen.

_You don't get to choose who you love._ She'd hated the man before her when he said those words to her, talking about his own twisted love for his sister and her unrequited love for Renly, mocking her even as he claimed not to be. She'd thought he was despicable and for that reason hated every word that came out of his mouth. She hadn't recognized the wisdom of his words until much later. Because she certainly had not chosen to love Jaime Lannister, but love him she did.

She thought of him, burning with fever on the ride to Harrenhall after he'd lost his hand. The stinking, rotting appendage hanging around his neck as he tried to waste away.

_You need to live_… She'd told him to live and he had. Despite the corruption that tried to kill him. Despite all either of them had faced, they where still alive. They'd both had more than one taste of the real world now. They'd lost more important things than either of them likely cared to remember. But they had not quit. They had endured and they had found their way back to each other. She would not lose him now. She could not lose him, not now that she'd finally seen what a future with him could look like.

"One day…" Jaime said, studying her for a long moment, his hand still on her face, but his grip had loosened to a caress. "One day isn't enough. I want more time... I need more time to love you."

Her heart hammered in her chest at his words but she pulled his hand away from her face. She didn't like him talking like there might not be more time. She needed more time with him as well and she could not stand to imagine the possibility that they might not get it. She would not lose him like this. Not right after they'd finally found their way to each other.

"You sound like a bloody woman." She said, but there was not as much bite in her words as there had been the first time she'd hurled that particular insult at him.

He looked surprised for a moment, but then the look faded to a soft smile.

She caught him round the back of the neck and pulled him in to a hard kiss. He bit her lower lip in a way that made her insides heat despite the cold. Gods… if only they had more time. The things she'd do to him.

She pulled away and looked into his sparkling eyes. Even on a dire night like this, the twinkle could not be extinguished from those eyes. It was as though the gods captured two stars and contained them within the man before her.

Just don't let those stars burn out, she thought in a silent prayer.

"Go." She ordered, barely above a whisper. "Protect Bran and Arya."

Jaime nodded and picked up a dragon glass sword with his left hand. "I will. I swear it. For Lady Catelyn…" He started to go and looked back at her. "And for you."

No… You don't get to choose who you love, she thought. But if she had the chance to do it over again and the choice with it, she'd love that man anyway.

* * *

Brienne made her way through the madness to her troops. Mostly men past their prime and boys too young to have much beyond the most basic training. The look of them did not instill her with much added faith in their odds, but she did her best not to let her trepidation show on her face.

Her father once told her you could read her every thought on her face as clear as day. For the sake of those under her command, she hoped that was not true this night, for she had little in the way of hope.

She drew a slow, steadying breath and rested her hand on the hilt of Oathkeeper. Though far from her side, a part of Jaime was with her and always would be. If he was with her now, she had no doubt he would say something glib and mildly insulting and she'd love it, for it would make her forget for just a moment the cold dread trickling down her spine.

_I need more time to love you_, he'd said. A day ago, she'd never have dared to imagine that Jaime would say anything of the kind to her. She'd never have imagined that he'd touch and kiss her as though she was the only thing in the world that mattered. It was like a lovely dream of spring in this cold, dead winter, and by the seven she was not ready to wake up.

"Lady Ser." A gravelly, yet pleasant voice called to her, drawing her out of her heavy thoughts. She looked over at the one-eyed knight.

"Ser Beric." She inclined her head to him in greeting.

"It appears I have the honor of serving under you, my lady." He said, scanning the soldiers before them. If he found them less than satisfactory, it did not show in his single eye. Perhaps after facing the dead beyond the wall and then fleeing them as their wight dragon brought the wall crumbling down had been enough to make him grateful for fighters, whatever their shape.

"The honor is mine." She said, stiffly. She didn't dislike the man, but all his talk of his god and Azor Ahi, the impossible savior, left her uneasy. She didn't have time for such fancies. She held to the Seven, simply because she'd been raised to believe in them, but when push came to shove, never once had she relied upon them to come to her rescue. It was to her thinking, that if you wanted something to happen, you were better off fighting for it than praying for it.

Though… She had prayed for Jaime. Not that he would love her, that had seemed out of even the power of the the Seven, but for his safety and his honor. She prayed that he'd have the strength to be the man she'd seen glimmers of, a good and true man. She'd prayed, selfishly, every time they parted, that she might see him… just once more. Unlike so many prayers that the gods had ignored in her youth, her prayers for Jaime always seemed to come true. So she offered up one more silent prayer, that he might make it through the long night and that she might see him at least once more.

She looked to the fires along the wall and saw them turn red, the color for the dead approaching. Movement must have been seen at the most distant pyre.

"Light the first trench!" She bellowed, hearing her order roll forward in a wave.

Soldiers fanned out, some carrying torches and others pitch. Within minutes, the trench was alight and the flames crawling hungrily across the outermost ring.

"Swords at the ready!" She barked, and her order was echoed by a thousand swords singing out of their sheaths.

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**Goodness! There are a lot of threads moving into this battle and a lot of pieces to move into place! **

**On another note, I'm finding that Wednesdays aren't the best days for me to update. I'm thinking of switching to Tuesdays or Thursdays. If you have a preference, let me know!**

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	5. Chapter 5: Arya

Arya elbowed her way through soldiers marching their way into position. She was supposed to be at the godswood, but instead, she found herself running in the opposite direction.

Her heart hammered in her chest with a feeling she wasn't used to. _Fear_, she realized. Not for herself and what she might face in the in the godswood while protecting Bran.

No, she was afraid for _him_.

She stopped short at the sight of Gendry Waters stepping out of the forge in full armor with a stag helmet and a war hammer in his hand.

She remembered stories of Robert Baratheon. Stories of how he'd struck down Rhaegar on the Trident with his own war hammer. In her memories, he was the fat king, a man who couldn't get down from a horse without assistance, but seeing Gendry, she thought she could see why one such figure had inspired the seven kingdoms to rise up in rebellion.

She didn't think it would take much persuading to follow that man anywhere.

She didn't believe in gods anymore. No god old or new had ever come to her aid. And death was less a deity and more a certainty. It came for everyone, it was only the _when_ that remained negotiable.

"Arya…" Gendry said as he saw her standing before him. His eyes were wide with surprise and, she hoped, happiness. She was unaccustomed to the things he made her feel without even seeming to try.

Her heart pounded as she crossed the space between them.

"Thought you were at the godswood." Gendry continued.

"That's where I'm heading now." Arya said.

Gendry gave her one of those stupid looks of his which she returned with a scowl. Yes, she was perfectly aware that she was heading in precisely the opposite direction of the godswood.

"I'm heading there soon." She amended.

He took a step toward her and his hand went around her waist. Her breath caught in her chest at the memory of his lips on hers.

_Let him live._ She would have made it a prayer, but didn't have anyone left to listen to her prayers.

"What do we say to the god of death?" She asked him.

"Huh?" There he went with another one of those stupid looks. At least this time he had something of an excuse. He wasn't so closely acquainted with death as she had become.

She rose up on her tiptoes and pulled him down for a desperate kiss. Slowly she pulled away and looked up into those eyes of his for a long moment.

"Not today." She told him, caressing his cheek. _Just let him live_.

Gendry licked his lips and then nodded slowly as her words sunk in. "Not today."

She nodded and gave him a thin smile. "See you tomorrow."

* * *

She ran rather than walked across the courtyard. She didn't think she could have parted from Gendry if she'd walked. But she'd made a promise to Bran that she would be by his side through the long night and it was a promise she intended to keep. _The pack survives._ Let their father be right about that at least. He'd been wrong about so many other things. Perhaps in a better world he would have been right, but this wasn't a better world. Gendry was resourceful, though. He'd be fine. At least that was what she told herself to keep her feet moving forward.

A flash of red fabric caught her eye and she slowed down, looking back.

The red woman…

All other thoughts faded as a burning rage boiled up inside her.

Without planning to change direction, her feet carried her in the direction of the figure in the red cloak.

"Arya Stark," the red woman said by way of greeting before Arya reached her.

Arya studied the woman for a long moment. She looked exactly as Arya remembered. She was beautiful, but there was something… something wrong in her beauty. Arya had thought as much right away, but none of the men seemed to notice. They were all too busy thinking with something other than their brains.

"You shouldn't be here."

"We're both precisely where the Lord of Light wants us." the woman said. "I did tell you we would meet again."

"I should kill you." Arya hissed, her grip tightening on her spear.

"You could, if you so desire." The woman seemed entirely unconcerned with the possibility of her death. "But there is no need. I am here to help."

"Help?" Arya asked. "How? More dark magic?"

The red woman looked mildly amused by the question. "I do believe a girl is just as familiar as I am with dark magic now."

Arya flinched at the use of Jaqen H'ghar's name for her.

"You know nothing." Arya said, though she found herself deeply shaken. "Your god has no place here and neither do you."

"Dear girl… Without my god, your god will surely prevail this night."

Arya frowned. She didn't believe in the Lord of Light, but she knew enough to know that his followers had some sort of power at their disposal. She'd seen Beric brought back from the dead first hand by Thoros and she'd heard this woman had done the same for Jon.

"I should kill you for what you did to Gendry." Arya said. "I'm letting you live for what you did for Jon."

The red woman bowed her head, "There are many eyes you'll shut forever, mine are not among them."

Arya nodded. "If you're god is real… now would be a good time for him to prove it."

* * *

She was breathless when she reached the godswood and found Bran waiting, surrounded by Jaime Lannister, Pod, and a troop of wildlings led by Jon's rugged red-haired friend Tormund.

"Nice of you to join us." Tormund teased with a good natured jeer.

Arya ignored him and walked straight to her brother and kneeling by his side.

"Sorry I'm late." She said.

Bran turned his nearly empty gaze on her and gave her a vacant smile. "You're not. You are precisely on time."

Arya frowned. She loved Bran, but she wasn't entirely sure that the boy before her was Bran anymore and that broke her heart a little. She longed for one more day, back before everything went to shit. She wanted to tease Bran for being a poor shot. She wanted Robb to help her onto a horse several hands too tall for her. She wanted to kiss Rickon's elbow when he fell and scrapped it and send him off to Sansa for tending if he kept whining. She wanted Jon to ruffle her hair and call her little sister. She even wanted to sit beside Sansa in the lessons that had made her want to crawl out of her skin. Just one more day. But those days were dead and gone, along with most of her family. Bran might not be the brother she remembered, but he was the one she had, and for that reason she would fight for him until her dying breath.

"I'll keep you safe." Arya promised. "I'll protect you."

"No one can protect me." Bran said, meeting her gaze.

* * *

**Tuesday it is! I hope you guys enjoy the update! Sorry that it's a bit slow to get to the action, but there's a lot of pieces to move into place and once the actions starts people start dying and I'm not sure I'm ready for that! Who will survive the long night? Who will not? Who knows? I certainly don't ;)**

**Please review.**


	6. Chapter 6: Sansa

Sansa's lungs burned in protest as she ran after Theon as fast as the heavy material of her gown would allow. She'd played her hand carefully. She'd thought she made all the wise choices. She'd thought she'd been so very clever. And for what? She'd led them straight into the cold dead hands of the Night King's army. After all this time, she was still that same stupid little girl. But how was one supposed to strategize against an enemy they didn't understand? How was she supposed to anticipate the actions of a being who's only aim was to stomp out all life and light? She saw now that no one could expect such a feat from her, but that didn't ease the surging guilt at the screams rising behind her. The blood that would be shed this night… blamed or not, would be on her hands.

Bile burned the back of her throat, but she swallowed it down. She did not think Theon would allow her to stop, not even to be sick.

Tears burned her eyes, but she would not shed them this night. Now was not the time to lament missteps or indulge in the useless self-pity of guilt. Those were the actions reserved for survivors. She would surely face both those demons, but not tonight. Not unless she found a way to stay alive.

She longed to slow and catch her breath, but she'd been through too much by Theon's side to doubt his judgement when it came to urgency. If he was dragging her away from something like her life depended on it, it was something she did not want to encounter. She gathered her skirt still higher and ignored the protest of her burning lungs.

They broke through the crowd and Theon pulled her down an embankment. Snow filled her boot. There was a time when that would have been enough to make her stop and squeal like the world was ending. She barely recognized that girl now. After all that had happened to her, she couldn't hold on to the girl she'd been even if she'd wanted to.

"This way." Theon hissed, guiding her into a large, hollowed stump.

Sansa scooted back as far as she could to make room for Theon. He crawled in after her and took her face in his hands, looking her over.

"Are you hurt?"

She shook her head and he let out a sigh of relief.

"How many are there?" She asked when she caught enough breath to speak.

"You don't want to know." Theon pulled her into a tight hug. "Stay still. Stay quiet. They'll pass you by."

Sansa stiffened. _They'll pass you by_… You… not us. She pulled back and squinted to make out Theon's face in the near dark.

"You're not staying?"

She could make out the glint of his eyes as he looked down, half in shame and half in determination.

"Someone's got to fight." He said.

"Not you." She whispered, her voice shaking. When Theon had agreed to take them to his ships, she had foolishly assumed that he'd be safer with her than if he stayed at Winterfell. But staying safely by her side had never been his role in her life. He was not always with her when she wanted him, but he was always there when she needed him. He'd gotten her away from Ramsay and to the care of Brienne. Then he had left her. Now he had whisked her away from slaughter, for what? To charge back in himself?

Theon pulled her into a hug so tight it hurt. After a long moment, she felt him pull away, but she didn't want to let him go.

"Let someone else fight." She begged.

Theon pushed her back gently and smiled a sad smile. "That's what I've been doing since I first left Winterfell. Look where it's gotten me."

"Alive." Sansa insisted. "It's kept you alive."

"What's life if you can't live with yourself?" Theon asked, but he didn't wait for her answer. He was gone before words could reach her lips, disappearing into the darkening day, the sound of his retreating footsteps swallowed up by screams of her defenseless people.

_They'll pass you by_… Theon had led her away from harm and left her as safe as anyone could hope to be this night. She could survive. _But what's life if you can't live with yourself?_ Theon's parting words cut her deeply. Since the day her father was executed in King's Landing, surviving was all she'd done. She never stopped to think about the cost or the price she was willing to pay. She just endured. She survived despite the odds stacked against her. She wasn't sure she could call any of it living, at least not until Brienne brought her half frozen to Castle Black. It was as though she hadn't been alive until Jon breathed life back into her. But now, miles from his side she felt half turned to ice again.

She closed her eyes and tried not to hear the screams of the people she'd led into an ambush. _What's life if you can't live with yourself? _What else could she do but cower and live? She was no soldier. She was one defenseless girl with a sword she had not training to wield. She could not turn the tide of any war. What would her death help? Would it save the others?

_No._

She didn't know if surviving was something she could live with, but she didn't see that she had any other choice.

_I'll protect you._ Jon had once promised her that. But no one could protect anyone. Going out there… it would be suicide. And what would it accomplish? Probably nothing.

But… But maybe it could accomplish something. Maybe, as Tyrion had said, she would see something. Maybe she could save someone. Even if it was just one person. That was a risk she could live with… and, if necessary, die for.

She remembered her own plea to Jon to do away with heroics in favor of returning to her safely. He'd never laid the same charge before her. She supposed he didn't think it needed saying. She'd never given him a reason to imagine she would do something so reckless. By the gods, for all her schemes and plans, it seemed she was just as foolhardy as the rest of them. She couldn't help but find the discovery rather amusing, though she imagined Jon would be less amused by it.

_I'll protect you_… she felt the memory of his warm lips on her skin. She'd told him that no one could protect anyone, but at the time, she hadn't truly believed her own words. She had felt safe, so long as Jon was on her side. But now she was alone. She'd been alone for so long, she'd lost sight of anything different, but then she'd returned to the North, she'd returned to Jon and she'd been reminded what it could be to have a pack. She couldn't go back to being alone. Despite her promise to Jon to carry on without him should he fall, she didn't think she could actually do it. She didn't think she could go back to being hollow. Not without a fight.

"Forgive me." She whispered, before pushing the thoughts of Jon down to where she kept him safe and cherished in her heart. She gathering her courage and crawled out of her hiding place.

If this was to be her end, death would not find her cowering.

* * *

**Thank you all for all the support you've shown this series so far! It really means the world to me! **

**P.S. Reviews make my day, so if you have the time, I'd love to hear from you!**


	7. Chapter 7: Bronn

Pyres like the spokes of a wagon's wheel stretched out in intervals from the outermost trench. As full dark claimed the sky, the outmost pyre snuffed out. Bronn tightened his grip on the hilt at his hip. The Lannister brothers might be fucking cunts, but he was a fucking fool. A man with more sense than he had would have gotten the promise of Highgarden from those pansies and started South immediately. He could have put a full day's ride between himself and the dead. Instead, here he stood with the fucking Starks and their half mad dragon queen, ready to do battle with the things of nightmares.

Fucking fool.

Bronn glanced at the Unsullied leader, a dark skinned man with a perpetually pinched expression only half concealed by his helmet. Gray Worm, Bronn thought he remembered that was his name. Bit of a silly name for a man who didn't have a worm to speak of, let alone a gray one. Might as well call him Blue Balls.

Bronn snorted at his own cleverness. He couldn't help but think Tyrion would have found that remark particularly amusing. Despite what he'd said to the contrary, he'd always maintained a soft spot for the dwarf. Not soft enough to over power his self-interest, but soft all the same.

Tyrion was part of some of his most genuinely happy memories. Most involved drinking, whoring, or joking.

He couldn't help but hope there might still be such days ahead.

Perhaps when Bronn held Highgarden and the Imp landed wherever he might (doubtless somewhere better than the troublesome little man deserved), perhaps then they could once more be friends.

Half a dozen pyres had extinguished as the dark encroached. He'd thought it had been the worst to watch men burned alive on the battle field by dragon fire, but he was wrong. At least then, he could see. At least then he knew the death that was coming for him, he could look it in the face and be prepared. Now death came like a stranger, creeping ever closer in the dark.

Five pyres remaining… then four. Bronn wasn't sure if it was his imagination or not, but the cold seemed to take on a life of its own as the dead drew near. His breath crystalized with every exhale.

He heard Gray Worm call out a command in a language he didn't know, but he understood the meaning by the reaction. _Get ready for battle_. The legion of unsullied shifted their weapons to the ready, their eyes blank and almost dead behind their masks.

Maybe it was true the stories he'd heard about the unmanned army. Cut away a man's passion and all that remains is an automaton, ready to follow orders without a thought of care for self.

Three pyres remaining. Bronn's heart hammered and he wasn't sure if the rattling rasping breaths were in his mind or coming from the dead. What need did the dead have for breathing?

He shuddered and tightened his grip on his sword.

Two pyres…

He'd imagined how he would die once or twice. He'd mused about a soft death in a soft bed, but in truth, he'd never held high hopes for such an ending. He was a hard and bitter man who had lived a hard and bitter life. Sure as the man beside him was without a cock, he was bound to find his way to a hard and bitter death.

One pyre…

As the last pyre flickered out, Bronn began to notice a glint beyond the barrier of flames. The glint of fire reflecting on icy blue eyes.

His insides turned as cold as those icy eyes as the first catapult loosed its fiery load.

* * *

**I apologize for the shortness of the chapter, but as I've mentioned before, now that we are in action territory some shorter chapters will be necessary. That being said... the main battle has officially begun!**

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	8. Chapter 8: Jaime

Jaime closed his eyes. He wasn't sure if he was trying to block out the sound of distant battle or hone in on it. It was quiet. Too quiet. He was used to the heat of battle, not waiting away from the danger.

Sure, danger was supposed to be coming for them, but it wasn't here now. It was with Brienne. And Brienne wasn't with him.

Stupid wench.

Fuck loyalty. She should have said fuck it again and stayed by his side. But no… She was too honorable for that. Even though he'd turned from his own loyalty at her behest, she still could not neglect her own. He'd curse her for that honor, but it was that same honor that taught him to love such a troublesome woman.

"You don't deserve her, you know?" The wildling said, shuffling over to Jaime's side.

Jaime considered ignoring Brienne's would-be suitor, but thought better of it. It was bound to be a long night, there was not need to condemn himself to passing it in a surly silence.

"I'm well aware." He admitted.

The wilding grunted, apparently pleased by this admission.

"You don't deserve her either." Jaime said, seeing no reason not to be blunt.

"You think so?" The large man seemed to swell up in his furs to the size of the bear he'd claimed to have fucked.

"I do."

Tormund gave a hearty chuckle. "You may be a one handed pecker, but you've got balls. I'll give you that."

Jaime looked him over and allowed himself an amused smirk.

"If I'm being honest…"

"We're all about to die." Tormund interjected. "No better time to be honest."

Jaime nodded, despite himself. He didn't want to believe that the wildling was right, but he couldn't see a clear way through this night.

"If I'm being honest." He started over. "None of us deserve her. She's good. And that's the rarest commodity in this world: Goodness."

Tormund's head was tilted in thought, but he didn't seem in a rush to speak. Perhaps silence wasn't such a bad thing when it was reasonably companionable, Jaime thought.

It was an unfamiliar sensation to be surrounded by people who didn't hate him on principle and who's loyalty wasn't bought and paid for by his family.

"The new hand's good." Tormund said, breaking the silence.

Jaime looked down at the new appendage, it's grip locked on Widow's Wail. Such an obnoxious name. Jaime supposed that was to be expected considering who had named it. Jaime had never spend a great deal of time thinking of Cersei's children as his own, but if he had, he would have found the idea of claiming Joffrey particularly loathsome. There'd been something rotten in that boy almost from the start. There was a meanness in him that had shown itself almost before any other personality trait. Still Cersei doted on the boy. Perhaps all the more for the vileness in his nature. Jaime hadn't seen that side of Cersei at the time… No… He'd chosen to ignore it.

It had always been easier to love Cersei when he'd made a point in not looking too close.

Whereas, with Brienne, the only reason he hadn't realized his love for her sooner was because he'd actively made a point of not looking too close.

Looking too close at one love was all it took to kill that love and all it took to build the other.

Brienne… What would his silly wench think if she could see two middle aged fools mooning over her as they waited to the imminent threat to find them? Doubtless, she'd clock them both upside the head for being so useless. While she was perfectly capable of being soft, she knew that there was a time and place for being soft. Awaiting a threat that could appear at any moment and possessed far superior forces was not the time to indulge in ones softer side.

He heard someone sniffle in the cold and glanced to find Pod at his elbow. He nodded to the squire. He wasn't sure which of them was most displeased at being here beneath the weirwood tree instead of at Brienne side in battle.

While Pod hadn't said a word against being relegated to guard duty with Jaime, he did not seem overly pleased with the prospect. Less, Jamie thought, because of the lack of epic glory to be earned in his present role and more because his place, like Jaime's, should have been by Brienne's side.

A part of him wanted to assure the squire that Brienne was far to difficult a wench to let herself die. A greater part of him was far too afraid to make any such thought known for fear that the very acknowledgment of it might cause the opposite to come true.

"Ease your mind."

Jaime spun around to find Bran's remote gaze staring through him. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't help but wonder if they'd all be a bit better off if he'd succeeded in killing the last true born son of Ned Stark when he'd tried all those years ago.

He wasn't sure that surviving had been any real gift to the boy. The figure before him was more shell than man.

And his survival seemed to have been the start of all the trouble.

If he'd died it would have been over and done and no one would have suspected foul play. Eddard Stark might never have even discovered the true parentage of Cersei's bastards.

The Starks and Lannisters might never have gone to war one with another.

Sansa would have married Joffery who's darker tendencies would have been keep in check by Robert's affinity for Lord Stark, Robb Stark would have found a wife among the daughters of the Northern Lords or maybe even the Tyrell girl. Ned would have served as hand for a year or two until Robert's gluttonous nature did him in and released from his position, Lord Stark would have gone home to his wife and remaining children.

There would have been peace or something like it.

There would have been no three-eyed raven to draw the dead south of the wall.

No one would bother to remember Lord Stark's bastard, let alone raise him up as their leader.

Jaime himself would still have his hand.

And he wouldn't have Brienne.

He'd never have crossed paths with the daughter of a small house loyal to the Baratheons.

She would have spent her days pining away after Renley.

He would have spent his days loving Cersei and never truly seeing the ugliness in her.

Yes, they all would have been better off. But he wasn't sure better off would have been better.

Despite the cost to get here, he felt certain that the time he'd shared with Brienne, no matter how brief, would alway be worth it. If Bran Stark had died, Jaime would never have known what was missing from his life, but it would have still been missing.

"What do you mean?" Jaime asked.

"Set aside your worries. Focus on the fight at hand and you will see her again." Bran said.

Jaime's throat went dry at the hope Bran kindled that he hadn't dared to hope on his own.

"Brienne…"

"You will see your love again." Bran said.

Jaime saw a flicker of something in Bran's eyes, something not quite so remote as his usual expression.

"What do you know about love?" Jaime asked.

"Everything and very little." Bran looked away. "When I was Bran Stark… I believed the things I felt for a girl might have been love or something close. I imagined she might feel something similar, despite the fact that I had nothing to offer her."

"What happened?" Jaime asked.

"She brought me safely back to Winterfell and returned home." Bran said.

"But you loved her."

"Bran Stark loved Meera, but I'm not Bran Stark any longer."

"Horse shit."

The interjection made Jaime jump and he looked over to find Tormund listening in on their conversation.

"Oh?" Bran asked.

"Yeah, that's horse shit." Tormund said. "If you were as unfeeling as you claim, she'd still be here. Because what would it matter if she died… if you didn't love her anymore?"

Tormund took a long drink from a flask and Bran studied him.

"Instead, you let her leave, so you wouldn't be a distracted lovestruck fool like this pecker here who can't see straight because he's too busy worrying about the big woman."

Bran looked away, passively, without bothering to reply, but Jaime thought he might have seen the barest hint of a smile.

"I must go." Bran said and his eyes rolled back, turning white.

"What the fuck?" Tormund yelped in alarm.

* * *

**Sorry for the later than usual post! Just got home from ACE Comic Con yesterday and back to work this morning! The struggle is real! But I met both Gwen and Kit so I'm as happy as happy can be! If you want to see the pictures, I'm working on getting them up on my Instagram missgreeneinthelibrary**

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	9. Chapter 9: Jon

Jon stood several steps behind his queen, watching her watch the first stirrings of battle. Even in the faded light, he could see the otherness about her. Though small in stature, there was something imposing about the figure she struck. The way her white hair danced in the frozen wind like falling stalactites. She was not of this world, of Westeros and the first men. Her very appearance was indicative of something foreign, something that did not truly belong in Westeros and never had. She was of the old world. The last remnant of something both precious and powerful. She might claim the Iron Throne, but that would not change the fact that this was not her home and never could be. It seemed to Jon that if there had ever been a place in the world for Targaryens it was long gone and they hadn't seen it's going until there was nothing left but the ashes of what once was. Westeros was not the place for Targaryens and Dragons. He wasn't even sure it it was the place for him... A man with two houses and two names but no true hold on either.

He wasn't a bastard and so that made him a prince. But if being true born made him a Targaryen, did that mean he was just as other as the woman before him?

_I'm not a Stark... You are to me. _The thrill of longing shuddered through him at the thought those words and the woman who'd spoken them to him. No... He couldn't be truly other. He couldn't be a Targaryen with no place in this land because he was her's. Sansa had claimed him body and soul, and where she'd go he would belong.

Daenerys glanced back at him as though in hopes of gleaning his thoughts on the beginnings of the battle. If she could see that his thoughts were far from the war below them, it did not show as she turned away once more. For the daughter of a man who died by a sword in the back, she did not seem to consider there being any risk in turning her own back on Jon. It was as though she trust in her bones that he would never harm her. He'd bent the knee to her, after all. He'd named her his queen.

But whenever their conversations strayed to close to the topic of Sansa, he saw a ragged raging fire in her eyes. She was not the cool and collected being, sculpted from ice, that one might guess by looking at her pale exterior. She was a dragon and the fire inside her burned too hot for comfort.

After all, taking back the seven kingdoms was not a task for someone with a gentle spirit. Fire and blood. Her house words. His too, he now knew. He'd been raised so long by wolves, he didn't know what it meant to be a dragon. From the stories of mad kings and tyrants, he didn't want it. But then there had been Master Aegon. A good man. A wise man. Not all Dragons were without reason. Not every one of them burned with a fire too hot to contain. Perhaps the ice of his mother's blood and his Northern upbringing were enough to make him more wolf than dragon. Perhaps the gods were merciful when they flipped his coin. But Daenerys… He wouldn't go so far as to call her mad. She was volatile and stubborn, but not mad. She could be guided to see reason, to recognize, as so many rulers before her had, that it was best to leave the North in the hands of the Starks. She was rash but not without reason. In time she would see that it was not possible to maintain a hold of all of the seven kingdoms unaided. She would see that Sansa, and her Stark surname, was key to holding the North, and anything else would be her undoing as much as her rivals.

She would see. He'd make her see. He had to.

Daenerys looked back at him. She studied him for a long moment and for just a single heartbeat Jon imagined that those eyes knew his every thought and he couldn't stop himself from looking down in shame. Because if she knew his every thought, then she knew that he was not his father's son, at least the father who raised him, he was not as honorable and unshakable as Ned Stark had been.

No… He was his true father's son. Tempted to stray from honor and reason for the love of a woman that he had no right to claim but did anyway.

While Daenerys might seem to have no fear that he would ever harm her, he could not share her confidence. She was his queen… but the way her eyes burned when her thoughts turned to Sansa… Well… If the choice came down to his honor or his heart, there was only one which he couldn't live without.

"We'll win, won't we?" Daenerys asked.

In that instant, it was no longer a fearless and tested queen that stood before him. In her place he saw a lost little girl with no friends and no family and no where to call home.

She'd come to Westeros to find a home and instead she found just another place to be conquered. There was no place left in the world for a lone Targaryen. But two Targaryens… perhaps with two they could carve out a place. Perhaps, as the Starks said, the pack could survive. If he could just show her that she could belong, that she could set aside the mantle of a conqueror, she could still be his queen.

"We'll win." He assured her. "We'll win because we have to."

Daenerys nodded and mounted Drogon.

"Keep watch for the White Walkers. I will not lose another of my children to this cause."

Drogon's wings spread and with his powerful hindquarters, he launched himself into the sky.

The force of wind from his flight sent a torrent of snow swirling around Jon. As the air stilled, Jon climbed onto Rhaegal's back and took to the air after his queen.

Daenerys and Drogon dove close to the army of the dead. A column of dragon fire lit the night as they cut through the corpses.

From a higher vantage, Jon and Rhaegal scanned the ranks of wights for the White Walkers. He itched to join in the cause of laying waste to the dead, but knew the fire power of one was better than risking both to an unseen harpoon. They could not afford to lose another of their greatest assets, or worse, have the tides turned by a second dead dragon added to the Night King's ranks.

He searched for the White Walkers. While they did not know if anything other than a Valyrian blade, he would rain fire on them to buy Daenerys and Drogon time to take the air and beyond the reach of harpoons. Better out of the fray and deprived for the advantage of dragon fire than the alternative. Better to live to fight later.

The Targaryen queen burned through more of the ranks of dead. More bodies destroyed before they could fall upon the living still safely behind the burning trenches.

And Sansa? Was she safely away from all of this? Gods, he hoped so. But he couldn't afford to think on that now. He took another sweep around the army. So many. A hundred thousand strong? Maybe more? It was the likes of which he'd never seen, never imagined. And every loss on their side was a gain for the enemies forces. Wildling, Giants, Northmen, Men of the Night's Watch. They'd each stood for something different in life. They'd lived and fought and died for love, honor, and countless other motivations. They'd been friends and they'd been enemies… but in death they were only one thing. United.

"Gods… Keep her far from this." Jon whispered, pushing down the image of Sansa's blue eyes turned glowing and undead.

Something caught his eye, a cluster of mounted figures sheltered and shielded at the tree line's edge.

The White Walkers.

Jon nudged Rhaegal in the new direction. Spotting the target, the dragon gathered his wings careened toward the ground in a nose dive. Jon clutched the beast's spikes, wishing dearly for the security of a saddle and stirrups.

"Dracarys," He yelled over the rushing wind. He felt heat build within his mount, so blisteringly hot his hands screamed in protest as he held his grip of the the dragon's spikes.

A slamming force from his left, nearly dislodged him from Rhaegal's back. His leg slipped loose and slapped against the dragon's back, he felt dozens of small spike gouge through his breeches, but he scrabbled to regain his seat as the dragon cartwheeled through the sky, plummeting toward the ground.

In the dizzying whirl of textures and colors in the dark night, Jon couldn't make sense of anything he was seeing. He only knew he had to hold on. Hold on or die.

Then, he saw a glow of flame. Blue flame.

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**As always, thank you for all your lovely reviews and support! You're the reason I keep writing! I'm going to be shifting my focus to an original work next month for NaNoWriMo, but I think I have gotten myself ahead enough that it shouldn't really impact you guys. I should still be able to keep up with one post a week through November!**

**Please Review.**


	10. Chapter 10: Sansa

An elbow caught Sansa in the ribs as panicked people pushed past her. The sharp sting ripped the air from her lungs. Fool. She was a fool. She was pushing into a crowd even as everyone else ran in the opposite direction. Theon was long gone and she'd lost sight of Ghost in the chaos as well.

She was alone. She knew she should turnaround and let the crowd drag her away. It would be easy to give in and let this tide carry her away. Once off the road, she could find her way back to her hollowed out tree and close her eyes and heart to the screams of her people.

She hesitated. It was the wise choice. She should go back. What good could she possibly hope to accomplish.

Then she saw a woman, knocked to the ground. Unaided, she would surely die, either trampled by good people crazed by fear or slaughtered by the dead when, injured, she was unable to out run them.

Stupid little bird.

Despite her good sense, Sansa shoved her way through to the woman and pulled depressing creature to her feet. Her face was nearly unidentifiable beneath the mud and blood, but Sansa thought she was younger than middle age.

The woman winced as she put weight on one of her left foot.

"Can you walk?" Sansa shouted over the chaos.

The woman nodded. Perhaps, she could walk, but she certainly wouldn't be able to run.

Sansa slipped an arm under the woman's to help her bear the weight.

Together, they staggered along with the heaving crowd.

"I.. I can't." The woman sobbed in pain.

"We can't stop." Sansa panted, her ribs stinging with every breath. She was beginning to suspect more damage than a bruise but that didn't matter now. She couldn't afford for it to matter now. "We stop and we're dead."

The woman nodded, and stumbled on, small sharp cries occasionally escaping her lips.

Something caught Sansa's eye. A small, scarred face, pinched in determination. Familiar…

The little girl from the courtyard the day before stood atop a wagon, a dragon glass knife clutched in her hands.

Sansa pulled the woman in the new direction. The woman looked at Sansa, her eyes wild with panic.

"The girl…" Sansa said, too winded for more words.

The woman saw the girl and shook her head in protest, but Sansa wouldn't be swayed. She'd made a promise to Davos that, if it was within her power, she would protect the child. She didn't know how much power she had in these circumstances, but she'd do what she could to keep her word.

When it was clear, Sansa wouldn't be stopped, the woman limped along with her.

Sansa reached the wagon and reached up to grab the girl's arm. It was too loud to be heard and she didn't know the child's name.

The sting of a blade slicing the palm of her hand made her draw back with a yelp.

Sansa looked at the young girl and opened her mouth to offer reassurance, but her lungs would not allow her to speak and her mind was blank of anything that would help anyway. Her heart pounded in her ears, but louder still was the endless screaming.

The child's wild eyes locked on her and recognition slowly dawned on the small face.

The girl jumped down from the wagon. "What's happening?"

Sansa shook her head. She knew they were under attack, but that was obvious. She held her bleeding hand out to the child and the little girl took it.

"What's your name?" She asked.

"Teela." The girl whispered in a shaking voice.

Sansa gave the child what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "I'm Sansa."

"I know who you are, milady." Teela said, giving her a half exasperated look that almost made Sansa laugh despite the crippling fear clawing at her insides. "All the North knows you."

Sansa was momentarily overwhelmed by this. She thought of herself as the Lady of Winterfell, because it had been her family's seat, not because the common folk knew or cared who she was. But, then again, the North remembered. And she would not forget her people in their hour of most desperate need. If she couldn't save them all, she would save one. She would save this one.

She squeezed Teela's hand.

"You're going to be okay." She promised, and she saw the same courage the Teela had shown in the yard.

Adjusting her grip on the woman, Sansa staggered back to the embankment. Together, the three of them slid down the slope now muddy and slick by the many feet that had torn up the earth since Sansa left her hiding spot.

She found the entrance to the hollow she'd left and was relieved to discover it still empty.

"Get in. All the way to the back." She ordered. The woman and Teela obeyed without question.

Sansa closed her eyes for a moment, trying to slow her breathing, her panicked panting was only making her stinging ribs smart worse.

"What about you?" Teela demanded.

"I'll be back." Sansa promised. "Until then, stay quiet and stay hidden. Protect each other."

Teela watched her for a long moment and then held the dragon glass knife out to her, the blade still shining with her blood.

"No, you need it."

"I stole two."

Sansa couldn't help the smile that came to her lips as she accepted the blade. She was just like Arya at that age. If she was lucky, that would keep her alive.

Sansa tucked the knife into her belt beside Needle and climbed back up the embankment, using her hands to drag herself the slick slope. In the now full dark, with no torches to illuminate the scene, she could barely make out movement up on the road, let alone anything else. But she could hears the screams. She couldn't unhear those screams. Her skin crawled at the blood curdling sounds. The sounds of those doomed to die. Doomed to die because she, foolishly, thought she was so much smarter than everyone else.

She thought it would be best to get away from Winterfell. But at least in Winterfell, they would have been surrounded by armies and a wall. They would have had a hope. She'd believed she was leading them away from danger, but instead she'd led them straight to slaughter. A wave of nausea clawed up her throat, but she stamped down the feeling. Now was not the time to surrender to her more delicate feminine sensibilities. Now was not the time to be soft, but rather the time to be steel. She had been forged through trials which started with the death of her Direwolf, due to her own cowardice. She was stronger now. She, like Jon, would be a shield to the realms of men. She would find a way to save her people even if it require her own life to shield theirs. She'd promised herself when she was young and far more naive that if she were ever to be a queen, she would make the people love her. She wasn't a queen, but she still intended to keep her half of that promise. She would give them a reason to love her.

Sansa heard a noise close and her hand went to Needle. The pregnant woman helping an elderly man came within arms reach before Sansa could make them out. Sansa grabbed the woman's arm and placed her finger to her lips.

The woman nodded, though her eyes were wild with terror.

"There's a hill just ahead. Slide down, it will be safer." Sansa whispered. "From there, you're about ten yards from the treeline. Walk until the underbrush gets too thick and then crawl in as deep as you can. Stay there until the threat is past. Understand?"

The woman nodded and Sansa nodded back, releasing her grip on her arm. She continued forward, praying she'd advised them right. They couldn't make it far. They just needed to make it far enough.

She continued in the direction of the continued screams and the sounds of a skirmish.

That's where Theon would be, right in the thick of it. That's where she was going. Perhaps, like Tyrion suggested when he said they should have stayed in Winterfell, she would see something. Perhaps it would make a difference.

She made her way through the nearly deserted caravan, creeping along side abandoned wagons.

She couldn't see more than a few feet ahead of her, but she wasn't going to assume the same applied to the dead. After all, why would they have chosen to attack in the dark if it hindered them?

Something caught her ankle. It was all she could to to stop herself from screaming.

"You foolish girl." A familiar voice hissed, sounding more proud than patronizing.

Sansa dropped to her knees and crawled under the wagon.

"Lord Tyrion."

The imp gave her a tight smile.

"Thought Greyjoy took you somewhere safe."

"He tried."

"Dead?"

Sansa shook her head, her heart tightening painfully at the thought. "He found me a place to hide and went back to fight."

Tyrion nodded. "But you didn't stay."

"I didn't stay." She let out a slow breath. "Thought I might see something."

"You pretty little fool." Tyrion said, taking her face in his hands and kissing her forehead hard. "You should have saved yourself."

"I've spent too long only worrying about my best interest. Look where it's gotten me."

"Alive. It's kept you alive." He hissed. "And as much as I appreciate you taking my words to heart, what you need to do now is live."

Sansa licked her lips, dry and chapped.

"I can't. Living won't mean a thing if the world burns down around us."

Tyrion looked amused, despite their predicament. "Seems more likely to freeze."

Sansa let out a slow breath that turned hazy between them, making his point for him.

"There's a hollowed out tree. Go down the embankment and find it. There's a woman and child hiding in it. The child's name is Teela. Warn her you're friendly or she'll stab you. Hide with them. You should be safe."

"And you?"

"I'll save who I can."

"What about yourself?"

Sansa swallowed hard. She couldn't see a way forward from this. She couldn't imaging what dawn would look like after this night. Perhaps because she wasn't destined to see it. "If you see Jon… Tell him… Tell him…"

"Tell him yourself." Tyrion snapped.

Sansa nodded and pushed him in the direction of safety. "Just go."

Once he disappeared into the dark, she crawled out. She heard whimpering and followed the noise.

At the next wagon, she found a half dozen children clinging to each other in terror. She crawled under after them. One little boy with curls looked up at her with eyes that reminded her of Rickon. Oh, sweet Rickon. She'd loved that child dearly and he left the world too soon. But maybe that was the way of things. Maybe this world was too foul for beautiful things to endure.

"It's going to be okay." She whispered, hoping her words wouldn't be a lie. "I need you to listen very carefully to what I'm going to tell you to do.

Something grabbed her braid and ripped her backward, out from under the wagon. She couldn't stop the scream that ripped from her lips.

the rasping, fetid breath of a wight was clammy against her neck. She scrambled for the dragon glass knife, but her hand found the hilt of Needle instead. She drew the thin blade and drove it through the eye of the wight. The corpse didn't even react as it's icy fingers wrapped around her throat, tightening slowly.

Air… She couldn't breathe. Her lungs screamed as her head began to pound. She struggled and kicked, clawing at the death grip, but she could pry lose the hands. She broke off one rotting finger and the grip just tightened.

Her pounding heart echoed so loudly in her ears, it drowned out all other sound as her vision began to darken.

A vicious growl ripped through the fog and the air came rushing back in.

She scrambled away and looked back to see Ghost ripping through the throat of the the wight who'd very nearly killed her.

When the corpse stilled, Ghost turned his red eyes on her. She let out a raspy laugh.

"You're a very good boy, aren't you?" She choked out.

She crawled out and pulled Needle from the corpse's skull and reached over, pulling the dire wolf close. She buried her face in his warm, soft fur and left out a relieved sob.

Then, a hand tightened on her shoulder.

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**Both a long and a Sansa chapter in one? You know you love me! That is... until I did my cliffhanger thing... ;) What can I say? Writers are cruel gods. Thank you so much for your continued support of this story, it's beyond thrilling to see how much you guys are enjoying my take on season 8.**

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	11. Chapter 11: Jorah

Jorah watched as the first loads of the catapults sailed through the dark sky, burning like red stars before they extinguished themselves upon the dead. Each load leaving a trail of wreckage, but unlike and army of the living, the dead did not panic and break formation when faced with such an assault.

Jorah looked to fires on the wall for his signal, but no blue flames called his charge. The stamping of hundreds of impatient steeds grated on his nerves. Waiting, after all, was worse than the madness of any battle. In the heat of battle, you could only afford to cling to one simple thought: Survive. If you were lucky and the gods were kind, that thought could be made manifest. But, it was up until the moment battle began that all the other thoughts raged and crashed.

He heard snippets of Dothraki pass between those under his charge, but only caught a word here and there. While fluent, it was different overhearing Dothraki than his mother tongue. The words did not stick in his mind unless he actively sought them out and he was far too preoccupied to pay them any mind.

The roar of a dragon filled the air and a cheer surged from a portion of the Dothraki as Drogon and their queen rained fire on the dead.

Jorah's heart swelled with pride. Though he could barely see the dragon, let alone the slight white-haired form astride him, he could picture them perfectly. It was a sight dearer to him and any other.

Home.

They'd traveled so long and so far and they were so close. They could finally be home. There were several barriers remaining, but nothing that she couldn't overcome. She'd overcome far more with far less than she now had at her disposal.

All they had to do now was survive the dead and take back the Iron Throne from a woman who's only remaining allies were those she'd bought and paid for with borrowed gold. A problem he had half taken care of already. He could remove two of his queen's greatest hinderances with one single letter.

All it took was a red wolf.

He glanced back at the walls of Winterfell, but still no blue flames rose from the wall to call them to action.

Perhaps he should have felt guilty writing a letter betraying the Lady Sansa while enjoying her hospitality, but he'd done far worse to someone he held far dearer. Besides, there was an odd sort of justice in it. Her father had been the one to exile him from the North, and he'd come home to unseat the great house that ousted him. He did not hate the girl, but he'd recognized her as a threat to both Daenerys's safety and happiness from almost the instant they'd arrived in Winterfell.

To take and hold the seven kingdoms safely, Daenerys needed a champion. A man of Westeros who had the respect of the people. As an outcast in his own homeland, that was not a role Jorah could fill. But Jon Snow… Jon Snow was precisely what Daenerys needed. Until they reached Winterfell, Jorah had believe that Snow was keen on the role of champion. That was, until Jorah saw the way the man looked at his beautiful sister. It takes a lovesick fool to see those same traits in another.

Jorah knew almost at once that if Daenerys was to succeed in Westeros, Sansa Stark could not maintain her hold of Winterfell.

He'd spent enough time along side the imp to know all about Sansa Stark, especially the fact that there were few people Cersei Lannister hated more.

And with a letter he'd struck a deal that could put everything Daenerys had every wanted within her grasp. The Seven Kingdoms. The Iron Throne.

_And Jon._

All it would cost was a pardon and a pelt.

A screech ripped the night in two.

Jorah looked up as a black mass tumbled through the sky.

Daenerys… No… The queen and Drogon were safe, he saw the great black dragon sweep in front of the moon as he carried his precious cargo up and away from danger.

Then that must be Jon and Rhaegal… and Viserion.

So the Night King himself had joined the fray.

Rhaegal and his fallen brother plummeted toward the the ground, locked in a death-match and loosing shrieks and roars that carried even over the sounds of battle.

The beasts broke apart in time to slow, but not stop their crash in the midst of the dead.

Blue flames filled the field.

And it's echo rose on the walls of Winterfell.

Jorah drew Sam Tarley's family sword and raised it in the air as he charged forward, the cry of the Dothraki screamers rising in a fearsome unison in his wake as they charged into the field.

And with the first clash of his blade all thoughts fled, save one.

_Survive_.

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**Happy Tuesday! Just a couple of days into NaNoWriMo and I've already written over 7K words of my original novel! But as you can see, you have not been forgotten! **

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	12. Chapter 12: Varys

Varys's life had spanned many of recent history's most renowned battles, He'd seen the rise and fall of a number of monarchs. He'd played a hand in several of those falls, though always safely from the shadows. He'd seen enough usurpers, pretenders, and true kings to realize that they were all the same, the only difference being the story they told. Any pretender could be a true king with enough support. Just look how far the Lannisters had milked their claim, parading about their heir and then the spare, even when the masses had long since stopped believing the narrative that Cersei's bastards were Baratheons.

But what of a good man? What chances did a good man with the legitimate claim have in the game? Daenerys might be as much a usurper as the fat king she despised, but she had the story. She had the dragons. She had an army.

And what did Jon Snow have? The legitimate claim and the love of a good woman. Neither of which would win him a throne, if history served as any sort of teacher.

And Varys believed in learning from history. He did not, after all, have the time to make all the same mistakes twice. It was that very faith in his learned ways that took him into the long night with confidence, even as the sun was blotted out from the sky prematurely. He'd lived through two great wars and many more battles. When he'd taken to the wall, he believed himself to be prepared for the battle to come. After all, he'd often been touched by the inconveniences of war, but, he soon realized, never truly touched by the horror of it.

Through all those previous battles, he'd kept safely away from the blood and destruction. From the Battle of Blackwater Bay to the Sack of Mereen, Varys had orbited countless calamities. He'd thought himself well seasoned in the worst the world had to offer. But that was before.

Before bodies fell on a fiery trench like water over the edge of a waterfall. Before dragon fire lit up the darkness of this unnatural night, revealing a seemingly endless ocean of corpses.

Before a dead dragon knocked Jon and Rhaegal from the sky and Daenerys retreated to a higher vantage point.

Before he lit the signal to call down the the Dothraki Screamers and watched as they charged down to pull the dead's attention from the trenches, and instead were overwhelmed by the superior numbers.

He was a clever man, no one could or would deny that. But what good was cleverness in the face of an overwhelming force? What good was winning if they had nothing left at the end?

What good was winning if Jon Snow was dead and they would simply place another tyrant upon the throne?

The flames in a section of the outermost trench flickered out as the bodies overwhelmed the fire, calling him back from the horror to the familiarity of pragmatic reasoning.

"Signal for a retreat." He shouted.

Packets of Sam Tarley's concoction were poured upon the signals, turning the flames a bloody red.

He heard the bellow of horns below, calling the long-bowmen back behind the innermost trench with the catapults. The main forces pulled back behind the second trench before releasing the the spring loaded spikes that narrowed the openings around the second trench to thin pathways, requiring the dead to bottleneck themselves to pass through, at least, until their numbers once again overwhelmed the barrier.

As more and more sections of the outermost trench flickered out beneath the smothering bodies, the space formerly held by their forces began to fill with the dead. The last of the retreating soldiers, lured the attention of the dead to the openings, where they began to funnel through to the waiting forces

Effective. The first of their preparations to work as planned. But it was not a indefinite solution, something Sansa had warned from the start. The bodies would pile up and eventually the bottlenecks would be overwhelmed. But for now, the bulk of their forces were protected while the opposing forces were thinned. Perhaps it was but sparse drop in the ocean, but thinned, nonetheless.

Varys took a long slow breath to calm his nerves as he scanned the chaos, trying to watch for the next great threat. This was, after all, a case of endurance. Offensive actions would have little effect on the battlefield. Their only great weapons from an offensive standpoint were the dragons which were hindered by Viserion. So long as the dead dragon was a piece on the board, this was merely a matter of attempting to survive. Any chance of bringing down Viserion relied upon Rhaegal and Jon, if the boy wasn't dead already, or Daenerys and Drogon. No, defense was their only hope. Varys knew from the start that he would be winning no wars, but he didn't have to. Unlike most battles, this was not a power play. This was the long game for the long night. Survival was the only win that mattered. And for this night, his only aim was to hold the line.

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**Please forgive the short chapter! I'm almost halfway through my NaNo project and then I can get back to work on this fic!**

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	13. Chapter 13: Theon

At Theon's touch, Sansa whirled around eyes as wide as a prey animal mid panicked flight. He brushed aside the knife she brandished wildly at him with ease. As her panic cooled, she recognized him and let out a sob of relief. Muddy and unkempt, she looked more like the abused child he'd escaped with from Ramsay sadistic hold than the polished Lady of Winterfell that commanded the admiration and respect of so many with seemingly effortless ease.

Ghost let out a warning growl, but settled back on his haunches when Sansa flung her arms around Theon.

"I told you to stay hidden." Theon hissed pushing her back. Despite the happiness it brought him to see her, the fact that she'd put herself in danger made his insides boil.

"I couldn't do nothing." She said. "People were dying. My people. I couldn't do nothing."

He longed to be angry at her. It would have been a less complicated emotion to deal with then the flicker of pride that kicked up at her words. She was so much easier to keep safe as the scared little girl who'd waded through icy rivers by his side. But the woman before him, while more difficult to protect, was precisely the woman her father and mother would have wanted her to be. She was brave and selfless as opposed to the sheltered, selfish child who had ridden south betrothed to a spoiled princeling so very long ago. But none of that would matter if she did not survive this night.

Theon gripped her wrist tight. "You need to get away from here."

"Maybe I can help." She said.

"Maybe you'll get yourself killed." Theon snapped. She wouldn't die. He wouldn't let her. This was one vow he would not break. Anyone else could fall. Everyone else, for that matter.

Not Sansa.

The beautiful Stark girl who meant more to him than family, self, or even life, met his gaze, her own expression as determined as any look he seen from Robb or Arya. She might have once been the softest of the Starks, but this cruel world had striped away all traces of that softness.

"What's life if you can't live with yourself?" She whispered his words back to him.

He looked at the bruises blossoming around her neck and fingered the damage tenderly.

"You've got nothing to make amends for." He told her.

Sansa's eyes darkened with a hidden sorrow. "You don't know the sins I live with. I might be less guilty than some, but none of use are innocent. Not anymore."

Her words hit him like a slap.

"They're innocent." Theon jerked his head in the direction of the cowering children.

Sansa looked over at the children and her resolve seemed to soften. Good. Perhaps he could get her away from this place. He'd unwittingly contributed in part to the death of at least three of the Starks and many others who had considered him a friend. He couldn't take back those actions, but if he could protect Sansa, if he could preserve the best that was left of the Starks… perhaps he could in some small way atone for the wrongs he'd done. Even if it would make not difference in erasing his own errors, she would be alive and that was enough to keep him going.

He would not fail the Starks again. He would not fail himself again. Sansa would live.

"No one will be safe if we can't stop the dead. No where we run will be far enough."

Theon frowned at her for a long moment. She was right. He knew she was right, but that didn't make him like the knowledge any betters.

"Let me help you." Sansa insisted.

"And the children?" Theon pressed, still hoping to dissuade her.

"I'll leave Ghost with them. It's as safe as I can hope to keep them."

Theon opened his mouth to protest, but he could see the stubborn set of her jaw, the same as Lady Catelyn used to have, and he knew it was no use.

Sansa guided Ghost to the wagon and whispered something to the dire wolf. Theon didn't know what she said, but he had no doubt the beast understood. There had always been too much intelligence in those red eyes.

Sansa returned to his side, a dragon glass dagger clutched in her hand and her face pale as Ghost's fur.

Together, they crept back toward the fray.

At the road's edge, he found the remaining Ironborn still locked in combat with the wights and ice spiders. One spider lay immobilized, half it's legs chopped off by one of the dragon glass axes.

The Ironborn were leaving their mark on their attackers, but though the Ironborn fought well, their numbers were few. And they couldn't fight forever. He and Sansa were hidden behind an abandoned cart, but the Ironborn would have to fall back again soon and then their cover would be compromised. He looked over at Sansa to asked her if she was ready to retreat to safety now that she'd seen what horrors lay ahead, but he stopped when he saw that she was not looking at the spiders at all, but instead at the body of one of the first casualties.

Theon looked down at the body. A young woman, curly dark hair pulled back from her face, a once pretty face gashed in half by some kind of blade. Eyes open and staring.

The Dragon Queen's advisor.

Missande.

"Sansa…"

Sansa shook her head to stop his words. She pulled out a handkerchief and gently placed it over the dead woman's face.

"I spoke to her this morning… Kept her alive… for what?" Sansa looked at him, her face pale as death and her eyes distant.

"Doesn't matter now." Theon said.

"If not now, when?" Sansa asked, her voice quavering. She looked out at the encroaching forces. The faint of heart would have fled at the sight. Hells, even the hardy of heart would if they'd had the option.

"When it's over." Theon said.

Sansa swallowed hard and reached out for Theon's hand. He took it and held it close to his heart.

"You're right…" Sansa whispered. "I can't help here. I can't… I can't save anyone."

"Can't save everyone." Theon said, taking her chin in his hand and forcing her to look at him. "There's a difference."

"Is there?"

Theon swallowed hard. He wanted to say yes, but he wasn't sure it was true.

"Let me save you, then you'll know first hand."

Sansa nodded.

Relief flooded Theon and he nodded back. Keeping his grip of her hand, he guided her away from the fighting. They stayed low as he scanned for a way of escape.

A quiet, frightened nicker nearly made him jump out of his skin, but he looked over and saw a horse still strapped into the rigging of an abandoned wagon.

He looked to Sansa, she had never been a strong rider, but he didn't see a better option. She was always capable when she needed to be and had been since she was a child

"Keep him calm, I'll get him loose." Theon whispered.

Sansa looked apprehensive, but nodded obediently.

She took the horse's halter in hand. The uneasy steed jerked his head up and snorted nervously. Sansa placed a soothing hand on the bridge of the horse's nose and murmured soft, soothing sounds that might have been words, but Theon couldn't distinguish any.

He tried to unfasten the straps, but found it nearly impossible in the dark. Instead, he pulled out his knife and sawed until the harness fell away. He signaled Sansa to come over and boosted her up.

"Ride hard and don't look back." He whispered, squeezing her leg reassuringly.

"Come with me." She whispered.

Theon considered it. He didn't know if it was what he should do or what he wanted it do, or perhaps just this once those two possibilities were inline with one another. Regardless, he no longer saw a reason to refuse her. There was nothing he could do to aid the Ironborn, but his company might be the only thing standing between Sansa and the dead. She'd already almost been killed once because he wasn't there to protect her. He couldn't let that happen again.

"Alright."

He saw the wave of relief wash over her face.

"I'll find another horse and be right behind you. Ride West. Ride hard."

Sansa nodded and took up the reins. She leaned over and pressed her lips to his forehead.

"I'll see you soon."

"I'll see you…" A sudden, white-hot pain choked off his words.

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**Sorry for the late update. It's been a very difficult day. My aunt passed away yesterday evening. I may not post for the next week or two, I haven't decided. Please know I'm not abandoning this story, I just have a lot of family stuff going on and am not sure how much attention I'll have to lend to this fic right now. Thank you for all your support thus far, it means the world. There is much more to come.**

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	14. Chapter 14: Brienne

The bottlenecks of the second trench were widening as the army of the living brought down corpse after corpse, each collapsed wight widening the bridge until the flow was no longer manageable. Brienne sliced down a wight that made it past the soldiers ahead of her.

The first she'd stopped, but doubtless not the last. If the seven were on her side, she'd slay many more of the dead before dawn. If they weren't… well then… She'd worry about that possibility if it became a reality. And if it did, she rather doubted she'd be doing much worrying at all.

To her right, in Pods usual place, fought Ser Beric, she found his presence distracting. Perhaps it was because the sight of him reminded her that everything she cherished, everything she fought to defend was far from her. Perhaps it was because all his talk of the lord of light and fictitious saviors made her uneasy. She couldn't say. All she knew was that she would have given almost anything to switch him with Pod or Jaime. But that was not to be. They all had their duties and honor pulled them in separate directions.

She would focus on the task at hand. Wars could not be won with split focus. Wars could not be fought on two fronts. So she tucked away her worry for Jaime and Pod and sliced down another wight, choosing to live for this battle on this front and not the one out of her control.

She glanced back at the wall in time to catch a second flash of red flames.

Retreat.

"Fall back! Fall back!" She bellowed over the clash of swords ringing in her ears.

The soldiers rushed back the relative safety of the last trench as the long-bowmen retreated to the wall with the other archers.

Brienne held the gap as her men raced through the opening, despite the chaos of retreat Beric stayed at her side.

The wave of wights clambering over the growing mountain of dead was an overwhelming force, one the last trench could not keep at bay for long. Even less time if they overwhelmed the last trench before the path of retreat was collapsed and swallowed up by the waiting flames.

"Fall back, Ser Brienne." Beric yelled to her. "This ground is lost."

"We can wait, more men can get to safety." Brienne said, hoping more than believing it to be true.

"At what cost?"

She looked to Beric and saw the unpleasant truth written across his face. Those not already across the final trench were as good as dead… if not… they all would be. She did no have time to muse over her options. There were no options. Survival. That was the only choice she had left. So she nodded to Beric and they ran the rest of the way across the opening.

"Collapse the path!" She yelled to the waiting unsullied. Without hesitation, they swung their axes and the path was swallowed up by spikes and flames.

Brienne could hear the screams of the men trapped on the other side. She closed her eyes to block out the unpleasant reality of the choice she'd made as the screams for passage changed to screams of those being slaughtered.

The urge to be sick clawed up her throat, but she swallow the bile back. This was no time to be faint of heart. In a choice between a dozen or so men and everyone inside the walls of Winterfell, there was no choice at all, only an action that had to be taken and lived with.

Beric reached out and squeezed her arm.

"You did right."

She shirked off his touch. Though well meant, it did not offer her any relief.

"Retreat within the walls." she hollered, not bothering to check for signals. They'd lost the ground outside the walls of Winterfell, or they very shortly would. There was no point in losing more men by delaying. The final trench was as good as lost. All that was left was to use the extra time to retreat within the walls of the castle and pray to the gods that they could hold it.

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**A short chapter (side effect of action and such a big cast, require more jumping around) but I wanted to give you guys an update. I'm still here and this story is still very important to me. Things are still kind of rough, so I can't commit to weekly updates again yet, but I'm going to do my best to update every other week.**

**Please review.**


	15. Chapter 15: Daenerys

Daenerys swept the sky, high above the fray, safe from even the Night King's reach. As Drogon ascended, she'd watched Rhaegal and Viserion plummet in a tangle of blue and orange flames, but with a shift of direction she'd lost them.

When the great black dragon leveled off, the little queen upon his back squinted into the dark. She'd always felt as powerful as a dragon when on Drogon's back, but for the first time she felt small and insignificant.

She searched below for any sign of Jon and Rhaegal or even Viserion, but she'd lost them all to the dark. Tears burned her eyes despite the icy winds whipping her face. For Jon or for Rhaegal, she couldn't say.

She watched as the first and then second trench was overwhelmed by wights and then as the final trench fell under heavy assault.

If she did nothing, the trench would be lost before their army could fall back behind the walls of Winterfell.

It was amazing the perspective the great height could lend. This wasn't a battle for the North and she could finally see it. This was so much greater than that. It was not risking her dragons for the sake of Winterfell or Northern pride. No, this was a battle for their very right to exist, their right to live and love and their right to want. For death was the true enemy of desire and ambition.

What use was a throne if there was no one left to rule?

What use were dragons if thousands perished?

What use was a crown if it was undeserved?

Drawing a deep breath, she guided Drogon into a dive.

The cold wind whipped at her face and yanked at her braids as she clung to Drogon's back with frozen fingers.

They landed behind the final trench at a weak point, as the piling corpse breeched the barricade.

"Dracarus." She screamed and Drogon set the night ablaze.

Soldiers cheered as they scrambled through the gates of the castle.

Hope bubbled up in her chest for the first time since she'd lost sight of Rhaegal and Viserion in their perilous tumble.

They could do this. They could beat back the dead and survive the night. And by the gods they would. She had not endured so much and fought so long for her story to end here. She was Daenerys Stormborn. Breaker of chains. Mother of dragons. The unburnt. And she would not…

A sudden jolt from Drogon dislodged her from his back, sending her falling to the ground as the dragon launched into the air, flailing and writing to shake the swarm of wight crawling over him like fire ants on carrion.

Her head throbbed from hitting something hard but she struggled to her feet. A burning wight reached from the dying flames and grabbed her ankle. She screamed and shook the corpse loose. A glint caught her eye and she grabbed a sword from a fallen soldier and brandished it before her.

Of all her studies and training, fighting had never been a priority. She'd spent her years across the narrow isles with champions fighting in her place. There had never been a need for her to perfect the art of swordplay and she was surprised to find just how heavy the blade felt in her hands.

She stumbled back toward the gate's of Winterfell.

Soldiers rushed by her, bumping into her. Not noticing or not caring that she was their rightful queen. To her nauseating realization, her birthright meant nothing in the midst of battle. She had no dragon and no Dothraki to rush to her aide. She'd always been a Targaryen alone in the world. But now… now she was just a girl. A girl alone in a battle that was far bigger than her or any throne.

Someone collided with her, knocking her to the ground and not even to slowing to help her back up in their desperation to reach the safety of the walls of Winterfell.

Someone trampled her hand and she shrieked in pain, losing her grip of her found sword.

She was first of her name.

She was Khaleesi.

She was… She was going to die.

The reality of it hit her like a slap. She had always been so sure of her destiny, so sure she was born reclaim the Iron Throne and take back what was taken from her family. Her's was a story of fire and blood… she'd just never imagined the blood would be her own.

"Khaleesi."

Her title, so familiar it felt more like a name than anything else, pulled her from her despair.

She looked up and saw Jorah, covered in blood and mud but still her sweet loyal Jorah. He pulled her up and together the staggered toward the closing gates.

She leaned on her knight for support, until she realized he was barely holding himself up.

"Ser Jorah… we must hurry." She plead, realizing that with each step she was holding him up more than he was holding her up. She felt the heat of blood on her hands and side and knew it was not her own. She couldn't bear to look and confirm the severity of the damage.

"Leave me, Khaleesi." Jorah whispered, the last of his strength failing him as he sank to his knees.

"No."She sobbed. "I will not. I will never abandon you."

Unable to hold him up, she lowered him into the trampled earth.

He squeezed her hand and looked up into her eyes with adoration that had never wavered or faded even now as the light in his eyes had begun to dim.

"Go, Khaleesi."

"No. You cannot die. I forbid it." She clutched his hands desperately.

He just gazed up at her, too weak to speak but she knew what he'd say if he had the words. He'd apologize. He'd apologize that he couldn't follow that last order. Because for all her followers and supporters, friends and allies… he was the only person she knew and trusted would be by her side. Come what may. Without him… Without him she was truly a Targaryen alone in the world…

And that was a terrible thing.

"Don't leave me." She sobbed, blinded by her grief even as hands grabbed her and pulled her away from her knight. Even as she screamed and plead to be left by his side.

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**Merry Christmas Eve! For those of you who wanted Jorah dead, I hope you liked your present... For those of you that didn't... well... That's Game of Thrones for you!**

**Please review. **


	16. Chapter 16: Sam

"We should have stayed at the citadel. We should have never come back to the North." Sam whimpered, his breath pouring from his lips in a heavy fog on the icy air. He couldn't remember ever feeling so cold, not even during his time beyond the wall.

As soon as the screaming started at the front of the caravan, he and Gilly and Little Sam had stolen away from the road and found a hiding place at the tree line. Gods... how he wanted to block out that screaming. He'd witnessed plenty of fighting and slaughters in his life, but not like this. Not so many innocent and defenseless cornered and powerless against an enemy they couldn't hope to escape. It was enough to turn his stomach. But he couldn't falter now.

Gilly had wanted to keep moving, afraid that Little Sam would be too frightened of the monsters in the dark to stay quiet, but Sam was afraid that if they pressed on in the dark they'd either get terribly lost or fall and hurt themselves. Perhaps that later concern was more about his on likelihood of falling and injuring himself than Gilly or Little Sam, but it was a valid concern regardless. He couldn't imagine that Gilly would leave him to the wights with a twisted ankle and he wouldn't be the cause of her being harmed, not for all of Westeros.

"Quiet Sam." Gilly scolded, pinching him. Hard enough shame him, but not so hard as to illicit a sound of pain.

Sam would have liked to think she was scolding her child, but he knew better. Little Sam was as quiet as a mouse in a sept. And if Sam was being honest, the child had a good deal more courage than his namesake.

He bowed his head, properly ashamed of his cowardice, and tried not to let the screams jangle his nerves any worse. A fools effort, but all he could really do in his present situation.

"Maybe I should try to help." He suggested, very much wanting her to talk him out of any mad idea of that kind.

Gilly shook her head. "You're no good at fighting."

He bristled a bit at the slight, not that he thought she meant it to hurt his feelings. She was just being frank, just being Gilly. After all, He was well aware that he was not much of a fighter. Still, he would have much rather she'd used a different tactic to dissuade him. Perhaps if she's demanded that he stay because she was pregnant and he couldn't leave her and a small child unprotected it would have stung less… Better that than reminding him that he was useless. Selfless was much less insulting than useless.

His thoughts drifted back to the road and their decimated caravan. How many had died already? How many would yet die? Were any Ironborn left, fighting for the defenseless? Were they all already dead and he was just too hopeful of a fool to realize it?

He felt a hand slip into his and give it a firm squeeze.

"I'm sorry Sam." Gilly whispered.

He shook his head, hoping she'd know all was forgiven. She was right after all. That was why Jon sent him away, if he was being honest with himself. Not so he'd be with Gilly to keep her safe, but so that he himself would stay safe. He was no good at fighting and everyone knew it. At Winterfell, he would have been as good as dead. This was supposed to be his road to safety.

Perhaps, the gods had it out for him. Or maybe they just had it out for all still living. Maybe the only god among the Seven with any strength these days was the Stranger.

"You were right." He whispered to his wildling love. "We should run. It's no safer staying here waiting to be found."

"No." Gilly shook her head. "There's no where left to run, Sam."

He realized she was right. They were outmanned and out planned. There was no miraculous escape this time.

Unless the Night King was stopped, they were all as good as dead. Seven hells… Even if he was beaten, there was no guarantee that would be enough to stop his forces. Maybe another of the White Walkers would just take up the mantel of Night King. Maybe, like death, there was no escaping its agents.

He gathered Gilly and Little Sam and tried to ignore the hot tears burning down his cheeks.

An unnatural sounds, like blocks of ice grinding together in an awful, screeching chitter drew his attention. He squinted out from their hiding place, into the dark and saw eight, glowing blue eyes burning in the night. An enormous spider, larger than a draft horse scurried down the hillside, its eight long legs covered in frost white hairs.

Sam didn't know how, but he felt certain the great beast saw them as clear as day.

"Take Sam…" He said, surprised by how steady his voice sounded. "Run. Don't look back, no matter what."

"Sam!" Gilly protested.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her hard. "Just run."

Gilly's face scrunch up in distress, but after a moment, she nodded. She took Little Sam's hand and the two disappeared into the dark.

Hands shaking, he fished out a dragon glass knife and crawled out of his hiding place. If this was the end, he'd face it head on.

No more running.

No more Lady Piggy.

After all, it wasn't cowardly to be afraid. He'd seen that enough among the men of the Nights Watch. How often had he seen scared men do great things. Jon had been terrified more often than not and still he rose to greatness. No… it wasn't cowardly to be afraid. It was only cowardly to let the fear win.

For a moment, for this one moment, he didn't have to be a coward. Perhaps he'd lived as one, but he could die as something more.

The great spider let out what he would have almost considered a chittering sound of excitement as he came out into the open. Could the dead or their beasts feel excitement? He didn't know. He didn't want to know. Not if his courage was going to hold long enough for Gilly and Little Sam to escape.

He brandished his knife, realizing how pathetically small it looked up against such a beast.

"Stay back!" He shouted.

The spider didn't stop at the threat. It didn't even slow.

Sam closed his eyes and flailed the knife wildly. Waiting to come into contact with something. Waiting for the pain.

It didn't come.

Instead, a wild, ferocious growl ripped through the night.

_Ghost?_

Sam opened his eyes, a sudden burst of hope lifting him from his terror. He expected to see a flash of white fur.

But no… A dire wolf hung from the side of the ice spider, it's jaw clamped down on one of the eight legs. But this was no white wolf. He gaped as a swarm of smaller wolves joined the dire wolf and overwhelmed the spider.

As the eight-legged beast stilled, the smaller wolves took off, perhaps in search of other prey, but the dire wolf lingered. It turned it's great head toward Sam, it's fierce eyes burning as it licked its chops.

A dire wolf, south of the wall, followed by a pack of gray wolves. The whispers of such a beast had spread far and wide over the years from travelers who claimed to have encountered such a beast. He'd even heard stories of the great bitch at the Citadel. But Sam had thought they were just stories. But the stories stood before him, wild and vicious and real and he had a name for her. After all, save Ghost, he only knew of one dire wolf south of the wall.

Nymeria.

He'd always had the strange feeling that Ghost was more intelligent than any beast had the right to be. He could only hope the same applied to his sister.

"Thank you." He said.

She let out a low growl but turned and raced after her pack.

Sam let out a breath of relief.

Then he remembered himself.

_Gilly and Little Sam._

Despite his fear of the dark, he charged into the underbrush after them. They were safe. Well… Perhaps not safe, but saved. Perhaps now they stood a chance. And that was enough. A bubble of hope was enough.

He raced through the woods, obeying the wilding logic he'd learned from Gilly. Moss grew on the North side of a tree, so she would have gone South. Away from the dead. Yes, he was sure of it.

And Gilly wouldn't be moving fast, between the baby and little Sam. He'd catch up with them soon.

They'd be together soon.

They would be okay.

He tripped over a root and fell to the ground.

He groaned in pain, but slowly gathered himself up… until he realized what tripped him was no root, but something soft and warm.

He scrambled over, but knew what he would find before he reached her. New that form as he ran his hands over it.

_Gilly_.

"No no no…" He wailed as he gathered her into his arms. Hot blood soaked through his clothes but he ignored it. She wasn't dead. She couldn't be dead.

He rocked her gently, the tears coming in torrents.

Then a thought stilled him.

"Sam?" He called, his horror lodged in his throat.

Slowly, painfully, he laid Gilly down, and felt around for a second, smaller body but found none.

"Sam?" He called again, his voice frantic with grief.

A small sob caught his ear and he scrambled in its direction. At the base of a tree, he found little Sam, pale with fear. He grabbed the child and held him close.

"It's okay." Sam whispered. "You're okay."

And he knew it was the truth or at least that it would be. Because that was what would have mattered to Gilly. Keeping Little Sam safe, no matter the cost. That was the very wish that had started their journey together so very long ago. A journey that had brought him the greatest joy and now the greatest sorrow in his life. A journey he and Little Sam would continue alone… for Gilly.

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**I'm sorry! **

**Please review**


	17. Chapter 17: Bran

Bran's eyes rolled back into seeing and Arya instantly knelt at his side. His body shivered against the cold and she instinctively tucked his furs tighter around him. Despite his physical response to the frozen night, the cold didn't truly faze him. Just like the pains of his broken body no longer troubled him, neither did such mild discomforts. He was too far removed from the brevity of mortality to care for such things.

He turned his head slowly toward his sister, looking at her, but not truly seeing her as he once had. He remembered the annoyance and admiration he'd felt for his slightly older sister in the days of his youth. She naturally excelled at all the things he was supposed to surpass a girl at. At the time, it had bothered him. But he'd grown to admire the capability of woman. There was a part of him that still knew her as his sister, still loved her as such, but that part was overwhelmed by everything else. And there was so much.

He'd seen too much, felt too much, to entertain any single emotion or indulge in a singular memory for more than a few seconds. As though the boy that had been Bran was no longer just physically paralyzed, but mentally as well. Trapped within a larger conscious that had overpowered him when the old Raven passed on and would not free him so long as he remained its host.

For what was Brandon Stark compared to the Three-eyed Raven?

"Where did you go?" Arya demanded, her voice shaking and unnerved despite her training. "We need you present."

"I've been where I needed to be." He said. "This battle is being waged on many fronts."

Arya's forehead creased in confusion and then her eyes went wide in understanding.

"The caravan."

"Lost."

Arya sank back, paling at the news. "Sansa?"

"Alive."

"Safe?" Arya pressed.

"None of us are safe."

"Can you keep her safe?"

Bran tilted his head in thought… more accurately, in many thoughts. He considered all the pieces at play and how tugging one thread might cause others to unravel.

"I can." He decided. "But only if she heeds my warning."

"Then go. Keep her safe."

"What of the plan?" Bran asked. "The greater good."

"The lone wolf dies." Arya said.

"But the pack survives." Bran considered her. And for just a moment, the three-eyed raven was overpowered by the wish of a crippled boy to save what family he had left.

With that, his eyes rolled back into his head and his consciousness left his body once more, leaving to dwell somewhere larger. Hotter. He calmed the panic in the mind of the great dragon, taking to the sky to escape the piercing blades of the dead.

The beasts mind was wild and powerful. As the panic subsided, the realization that its rider was no longer on its back rose to the surface. The beast started to dive, but Bran pressed his control, forcing the dragon to accept his thoughts as its own.

The dragon resisted, but Bran pressed harder until the great beast submitted to him and soared to the West.

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**For those who don't like short chapters, sorry! By way of making amends and because I've had a couple of reviewers ask when we'll see our girl again, I'll tell you the next chapter is a Jon POV and Chapter 20 will be our girl Sansa. As for the hearts I broke with last chapter's character death... I'm sorry. My first complaint about season 8 was the lack of damage done to "real" characters in the Long Night. I was expecting absolute carnage, instead like 3 people of note died. I'm starting to feel like a gameshow host though... if that gameshow host was a grim reaper. "Death for you!" "Death for you!" "And here's some maiming and dismemberment for you!" (I think the power is going to my head)**

**Okay... Now that tangent is over, have a lovely day!**

**Please Review!**


	18. Chapter 18: Jon

_Jon slowly ran his fingers over her pale flesh, pale as moonlight on fresh snow, luxuriating in the sensation of love itself within his grasp. She was flawless save for the marks left on her by her past abusers. He counted each mark, evidence of each time she'd cried for the heroes from her sweet songs and none came to her rescue. Each time she'd needed him and he'd been half a world away._

_He looked up and found her pale, intelligent eyes studying him. _

_Sansa… _

_He kissed up her bare stomach, burying his face in the tender pillow of her breasts._

_He wondered what might have been if he'd never know her as a sister. If she'd been cousin Sansa and he hadn't been her father's bastard. What might have been?_

_For that matter, if he'd never been a bastard at all. If one or both of his parents had survived Robert's Rebellion and the Targaryen's reign endured. What sort of man might he have been? Would there have been peace? Would his Northern love's heart have been his to claim from the very start? Or would the Starks have remained safe in Winterfell while he came of age in Kings Landing, never knowing what it was to love the red wolf that the gods themselves seemed to have made for him alone? _

_They couldn't start again and all his musings, for good or ill, were impossibilities, but he could love her now and try to love away the broken parts. To protect this love. _

_"We should have stayed in that cave." He whispered, remembering the last words of another love. Was this love, like the one before it, doomed?_

_"What are you doing, Jon?" Sansa murmured, her voice as soft as a kiss._

_He closed his eyes to bask in the tones. She seemed to be the balm for all the harsh and ugly sights and sounds he'd faced before she found her way back to him._

_"Jon." She said, her tone a little more firm._

_He opened his eyes and looked at her, the lovely curve of her cheek, the way her hair fanned out around her._

_"What are you doing?"_

_"Loving you." He said, pressing kisses tenderly across the soft flesh of her stomach. His love. His beautiful love. But so much more than beautiful. She was everything that his formative years had denied him. She was family. She was love. She was hope. And if the gods granted him mercy, she was his future._

_"Then love me better." She commanded, taking his face in her hand and gently guiding his gazed to her own. "Fight, Jon. For us."_

_He frowned, confused by her words._

_"Come back to me." She said firmly, pulling him into a hard kiss._

He woke gasping, flashes of blue and orange lighting his blurry vision.

With a groan of pain, he forced himself up to sitting. He had sunk deep into a snow bank. It had broken his fall and no doubt saved his life, but it was far from a soft landing.

He didn't know how high up he'd been when he'd been thrown from Rhaegal's back nor did he know how long he'd been unconscious. It could have been hours or minutes. It seemed an eternity when he was in Sansa's arms but his perfect eternity ended in a heartbeat.

He clawed his way out of the bank, not bothering to take stock of his injuries. It was easier to assume the damage wasn't so bad if he didn't look too close. And it was easier to push through the pain when he could believe that the damage wasn't so bad.

He had no sense of direction at first, but the glow of Winterfell in the distance oriented him.

Above him, the dragons continued their battle. But the Night King… where what he? Surely he'd been dislodged in the dizzying fall as well.

Jon drew Longclaw and limped forward. He didn't know where he was going, so he figured straight ahead, toward Winterfell and the Godswood seemed as good a choice as any.

If Bran was right, that was where the Night King would be headed as well.

The sing of a sword being drawn from it's scabbard was his only warning of attack. He whirled around, raising Longclaw barely in time to block the blade.

"Fuck." He cursed in surprise as the blow rattled through his bones.

The glowing eyes of the Night King gazed down at him with that utter lack of malice or feeling of any kind that had haunted them since last they'd crossed paths. There was something so incredibly unnerving about facing an enemy who showed not emotion. There was always something driving a soldier, something at their core that pushed them onward. For Jon that force had always been family and honor. Now those and so many other hopes were now bundled up and embodied in his heart and mind in the image of Sansa.

But this creature… it was not hate nor love nor anything else that Jon could understand driving the Night King. And how could he hope to beat an opponent when he couldn't understand it's weakness?

They crossed blades again and again, each blow rattling Jon to the bone.

The Night King was far stronger. He was faster and not wearied by injury. And, Jon realized, he was toying with him. He could sense it. The monster was simply beating him down until he ran out of fight. After all, only one of them would tire out.

Backing away from the battery of blows, Jon stumbled over a fallen soldier and fell to the ground, Longclaw skittering from his grasp.

The Night King raise his sword over his head to deliver the death blow, when a surge of blistering heat rushed over Jon, engulfing the monstrous figure.

Jon rolled over, burrowing as deep as he could into the snow.

He felt as though his insides were boiling, as though he would burst into flame and be devoured by the unimaginable heat.

Then, as quick as it started, the heat dissipated. Jon scrambled to Longclaw, the pommel searing into his palm, and rolled over, looking back.

He didn't know what he'd expected to find, but certainly not the Night King untouched by dragon fire, mounting Viserion.

Jon struggled to his feet, ignoring the blistering pain on his back, and stumbling after the Night King.

He bellowed a wordless cry at his enemy.

The Night King looked down at him from the back of the wight dragon.

There was no change in his expression, but Jon felt as though the leader of the dead was amused.

Then, slowly, the Night King turned his gaze to the West.

Jon didn't follow the Night King's gaze, didn't need to understand it's meaning. He understood the Night King as clearly as if they'd spoken man to man and it turned his insides to ice. He might not understand what drove his enemy, but his enemy understood him perfectly. He knew without a doubt that the dead had out maneuvered them and the caravan was under attack. That Sansa… Sansa was in danger.

Gods preserve her. He prayed desperately to any god that might be listening, old or new, that someone would protect her.

The Night King raised his hands and as he did so, the fallen bodies surrounding them rose. In that moment, Jon realized the Night King didn't need words to tell him he was beaten.

But Jon had never bowed to impossible odds before and he didn't intend to start. He heft Longclaw higher, preparing to defend against the onslaught as Viserion took to the air with his enemy.

As the first wight closed in, burning heat filled the air once more as Rhaegal landed beside Jon, swiping the dead away with his tale.

Jon scrambled up onto Rhaegal's black and the dragon took to the air.

Both rider and dragon hesitated for a moment as Jon looked to the West, to Sansa and his future. A future that was dwindling, if not lost, even now.

His heart urged him to the West, but duty called him home.

"Let's end this." Jon said, urging Rhaegal back to Winterfell and the Godswood.

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**Sorry for the wait, but I hope you enjoyed! And I hope this chapter finds you all safe and healthy in this crazy world.**

**Please review, it really does keep me going! **


	19. Chapter 19: Davos

From the yard, churned up into ankle deep mud from hours of stampeding from many heavy boots, Davos spared a glance up at the wall. The signal fires burned low, no longer tended, no longer carrying color coded warnings. What was left to warn? The dead had overwhelmed all of their carefully prepared defenses. Their remaining numbers had retreated to the minimal safety to be found within the walls of Winterfell.

They'd planned, they'd fought, and they'd failed. But they had not yet fallen.

It was defeat in slow motion.

Hope seemed like an ever waning dream, but he'd keep hoping just as long as there was life in his old body, no matter how low his spirits sank. He wasn't much of a soldier, but maybe his hopes could help in some small way. Maybe some god, old or new made no difference anymore, hell, he'd even take the Lord of Light at this point, would see his hope and hear it for what it was, a desperate and final prayer for survival. Perhaps it wouldn't do much, but it would certainly still do more than his swordsmanship.

The onslaught outside battered relentlessly at the gate pulling his attention back from his reveries. It was too loud, the sights and sounds of battle too pungent as well, to escape for long. He could see the archers on the walls trying and failing to keep the wights at bay as the bodies surely piled high beyond. Either they'd come over or through the wall, it was just a matter of time to tell which would happen first. The bodies themselves would serve as a ladder allowing the fortress to be overrun by the dead if they didn't manage to bring down the gate before then.

He searched around for ideas, for one last spark of brilliance. He wasn't near as great a thinker as Varys or Tyrion, but sometimes you didn't need greatness, sometimes all you needed was a bit of dumb luck. At this point, he'd take any luck he could find, even the dumbest.

The yard might has well have been turned upside down for the chaotic energy surging through every panicked soul. Soldiers scrambling in a directionless, undulating mass, too shaken to heed the shouts of their captains.

His insides turned to ice. He'd seen this before, too many times before. He felt the the unquenchable heat of wildfire at his back and the cold tide pulling him under.

Nothing but death. There was nothing but death and loss to be found in war. Why had they waged so many? Why had they fought and died to place one man higher than another on a throne that no one but a power-crazed fool would want? Why had so many died needlessly before the battle against the dead even began?

He spotted Brienne, for the one thing the lady knight could not excel at was blending in, several yards away. She was pale as a ghost, but seemingly unharmed and still in control of her faculties, bellowing at soldiers. He could not begin to imagine what orders she barked, but they seemed to be lost, even on the soldiers under her command. There was no commanding boys and old men who's senses were lost to terror.

A flash of white drew his gaze to the parapet. A small band of Unsullied surrounded the small but recognizable figure of the queen as they ushered her up, though to where Davos couldn't afford to put much thought. The parapet was no safer than anywhere else. He couldn't even imagine that above was any less chaos then below.

Davos wasn't overly attached to the little Targaryen queen, but Jon Snow believed in her and he believed in Jon, so he wished her good fortune to preserve her through the long night.

"Ser Davos." A familiar voice cut through the chaos. It was equal parts pleasure and pain to hear it. One of those gods had heard him after all, the one he most believed in and most detested.

He turned and slowly took in the figure of Melisandre. The dark and dangerous beauty met his gaze.

"Still alive, I see?" Davos said, despite himself, he was relieved to see her.

"It is not yet dawn." She returned, slowly coming to stand beside, eyes on the heavily assaulted gate.

"Where's your Lord of Light now?" He asked.

"He is with me." She said, reaching up and fingering her necklace, her expression far away. "He is always with me."

"Well, if he's got any big plans, now would be a good time." Davos said.

"Remember his hand is in all things, Ser Davos. Had either of our paths diverged, we would not be here now. Me to die and you to live."

"No god gives two shits what becomes of me." Davos said.

"You have a part to play before the long night is over." Melisandra assured him.

Then she turned her attention back to the gate. She closed her eyes and brought her hands before her chest in what looked like a prayer. Then she stretched her arms wide.

And flames rose up from the very walls of Winterfell.

* * *

**Sorry for the wait! As I'm sure everyone can agree, life has been a bit crazy of late. Unfortunately, that means I can't commit to a regular update schedule. But I can tell you that finishing this story is still very much important to me and I will continue to update as often as I can manage. In the meantime, thank you for all your reviews and support. It's what keeps me motivated when life gets away from me and this fic ends up neglected as a result. I hope this update find you all safe and healthy!**


	20. Chapter 20: Sansa

Sansa jumped down from the sorrel steed. A scream built in her chest but died before reaching her lips. Oh, how she longed to scream, to descend into hysterics, but that would do not good. Fear was a luxury she couldn't afford.

The cowardly beast bolting the moment she feet touched the muddy ground, the reins ripped viciously from her grip. White hot burst of pain in her left hand, but, but she didn't care. The pain didn't matter. All that mattered was getting to Theon.

What she'd seen still didn't fully seem real, even as she wrapped her arms beneath Theon's and sank with him to the ground, unable to keep him upright. The tip of the spear that had burst through his chest, cutting his words off mid promise. How could this happen? They were supposed to escape. He was supposed to find a second horse and be right behind her. He'd been by her side through so much, she couldn't lose him now.

Ghost let out a low growl, brushing close to her with his warm, comforting presence, before crouching protectively at their side, his red eyes narrowed and scanning the surroundings in constant vigilance.

Theon's hot blood, splattered on her face, cooled even at hot tears joined them. Her gut felt sick and hollow. She had been baptized more thoroughly than any of the Iron Island's drowned men, but her's was a baptism of blood, the blood of her would be protectors. So many had bled for her, died for her, died because of her. It no longer left her stunned and immovable in the face of disaster. She was no longer a little bird in a cage. She had grown. Her broken wings had healed. And though Theon's blood had been added to the list of her protectors, she would not allow his life to join his blood. By the gods, she wouldn't let him die for her... Because of her.

"Sansa." He choked on his shock.

She shook her head to quiet him, she remembered that talking was supposed to make such things worse. "It's okay. It's not so bad."

She knew that was a lie, but she thought or maybe hoped that it was perhaps only a little lie. After all, from what she knew of the body, it could be worse. She was no maester, but she knew the heart was on the left and the spear was protruding from his chest on the right and high. She thought it might have missed his vital organs… at least she hoped.

She moved her hands to the spear pull it out, but Theon stopped her.

"Leave it. It will bleed less if it stays in." He explained.

She nodded, glad to be spared the task. She thought her hands might have been shaking too hard to do it without causing further damage.

Theon place his hand over hers, the weight of it, calming some of the shaking.

"Now go." Theon ordered, his voice low and raspy from the effort, but firm.

"I won't leave you."

His grip tightened on her arm. "Don't be stupid."

"I'm never going to leave you." She snapped. Stupid little bird. Well, maybe she was stupid, but she'd rather be stupid and stand for those things she believed in and beside the people she loved than be as clever and hollow as all her poisonous teachers in Kings Landing. There were worse things than having a head full of songs and a heart full of love. She would give all she had to go back to before she'd ever laid eyes on King Robert and the Lannister's. What good would it be to survive the dead if they were all as cold and dead on the inside as the monsters they fought? She wanted more than that. For what remained of her people. For what remained of her family. For herself.

She wanted to have something of herself left when this was over, or what was the point?

"I promised to get you to the Iron Islands." Theon winced, pale with pain. "Let me keep this one oath."

"Then keep it." Sansa snapped. "Deliver me yourself."

"Sansa…"

"No."

Theon leveled her with a searching gaze for a long moment before nodding.

"No." He agreed.

"Can you stand?" She asked.

Theon took a pained breath and tried to push himself up, but winced and sank back against her.

"Not far."

She nodded, scanning their surroundings. There was no sign of whatever ungodly creature that had thrown the spear. She didn't fool herself into thinking that meant they were safe, but safe for now.

"We need to get you somewhere safe."

"No where is safe," Theon reminded her. "If you wont leave me, then stop wasting time. Go and find a horse. Just one. Riding double will be slower, but I couldn't manage on my own anyway."

"One horse." Sansa agreed.

"Do you have dragon glass?" Theon asked.

She held out the knife that felt ridiculously small as her only weapon against such a great and terrible enemy.

Theon gave a small jerk of his head that must have been the closest thing to a nod he could manage as the initial shock wore away leaving the unchecked pain.

She desperately wanted to hug him goodbye for what she prayed wouldn't be the last time, to hold him tightly and let him squeeze the fear from her, but she thought better of it and brush a kiss against his forehead. "I'll be back."

Ghost rose to follow, but she knelt beside him and stroked his head with her unharmed hand.

"Stay with Theon."

"No." Theon protested.

She met his gaze. "I couldn't focus on the task at hand if I left you defenseless. Ghost stays."

Theon looked very much like he wanted to argue further, but said nothing. He did, however, give her a look that very much reminded her of the one she imagined Jon would level her with if he was in Theon's place. One that was equal parts adoration and frustration.

Jon... Her heart ached at the thought of him. Were they fairing any better back at Winterfell? Somehow, she doubted it. But perhaps upon the back of a dragon, Jon was safer than the rest. She liked to think as much. She pushed down the worry that made her eyes sting with emotion. She couldn't afford to think too much about the love she'd left behind. She had to trust. Trust that they would find their way back to each other like they had before.

"I'll be back." She promised as she turned and left.

She picked her way through the abandoned carts, her every sense on high alert. The night had grown quiet and smooth that was even more unsettling than the screams and sounds of chaos and death. Where were the dead? Where they, even now, standing just beyond her field of vision, watching her with dead and glowing eyes? The thought sent an uneasy chill down her spine.

She didn't have the time or energy to indulge in overactive imaginings. Instead, she tightened her grip on the dragon glass blade and crept from cart to cart.

She strained her hearing, praying desperately for a nervous nicker to lead her in the right direction. She didn't want to stray to far from Ghost and Theon, but she knew she couldn't go back empty handed. Either she found a horse or none of them would get out of this alive.

She crept on, trying not to think about the people who had been in the empty carts not so very long ago. How many had died? How many were even now cowering for cover, holding shaking breaths in the desperate and bleak hope that death would pass them by this night.

She had led them straight into slaughter. Had she chosen the wrong path? Or, was there no road that lead through the long night that didn't lead to a terrible end?

A breathy, skittish wicker caught her ear and tears brimmed up in her ears at the blessed sound. She quickened her pace in the direction of the sound.

She stopped when she found the very steed that had abandoned her, reins now caught on a cart.

"You're a great fool, aren't you," She snapped, despite herself as she worked to untangle the reigns. Her wounded hand, something was likely broken from the look of it, would not cooperate, so she placed the blade between her teeth and worked on the reins with her good hand until they came loose. "Come now, and no more foolishness. We stand a better chance together."

Gods, what was she coming too? Talking to a horse like it would understand her. She supposed it helped to think of the beast as a rational creature, one that could be reasoned with, instead of a skittish beast that was more likely to trample her. She was sure she would be more than happy to never ride again for the rest of her life if she made it out of this.

The horse stopped and began pulling back. It let out a sound of panic that Sansa could only describe as a scream.

"Settle." She soothed, trying to calm the animal, but it reared, tossing it's great head in panic. She released the reins, rather than risk her remaining good hand and the cursed beast once again bolted. She was tempted to yell after it, but her current situation cooled her temper.

Though it was the chittering that came from behind her that turned her blood to ice.

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**Because I'm sure we're all losing our minds a little, I wanted to surprise you guys with a quick update this time around (sorry to say that this should not be expected to become the norm, I just happened to have a little extra time and managed to finish up the chapter). I know many of you have been desperate for an update on Sansa. Unfortunately, it's out of the frying pan and into the fire!... or should I say ice?**

**Please review!**


	21. Chapter 21: Daenerys

Everything in her vision blurred, lost in a tangle of fire and grief, smoke and tears washing away everything that had come before. In her hour of need, she'd been forsaken. Drogon had abandoned her. Jorah… Jorah was lost to her. Her armies had crumbled beneath the hordes of the dead. Even her supporters were turning on her. She could see it in their eyes, as the fire she'd kindled with them flickered. Jorah's fire had been the only one to never waver, but now.. now even his had been snuffed out in this unquenchable ice.

Never before had her need been so great and never had she been so utterly alone. When she'd lost Drogo and their child and his riders had abandoned them, she thought she'd been brought truly low. Then when her people has almost perished on the great grass sea, she thought the fire has spared her for naught. Again, when her dragons had been stolen by the sorcerers at the house of the undying she thought she could lose no more. But each time she'd risen all the stronger for having been brought so low.

And the higher she rose, the easier it was to believe that she'd been set apart for a glorious purpose. The easier it was to forget she'd once considered her own brother a fool for believing that the small folk of Westeros cared if the Targaryen's returned to the throne. The easier it was to forget that if she wanted to reclaim her birthright it would take more than fire and blood.

No one could fight an enemy on all sides, not even a dragon queen.

She didn't know where she was going or who was leading her after being torn away from Jorah. She had no sense of time or place. Everything was lost. Everything was turning to ice. Viserion… Jon… Jorah… everything that she'd held dear was lost in an endless sea of ice.

Burn them all. Melt the ice and bring them back life. Burn them all.

"Burn them all."

A sharp, stinging slap across the face brought her to her senses and with her senses she realized she'd been screaming those words… her fathers words over and over again.

Before her stood Varys, the picture of composure with his hands tucked into his long and flowing sleeves. No one would guess by looking at him that he stood at the helm of a sinking ship.

The tip of several spears pressed to his neck in response for the slap he'd given his queen, but not even the slightest trace of fear reached his eyes. What did reach his eyes was a faint hint of contempt.

Daenerys's face burned with shame.

"If you would be so kind as to tell your men to stand down." He said, as though it really mattered very little to him.

She looked around at the unsullied, spears trained on the man who'd dared to lay a hand on their queen. Even if that queen was screaming a mad order in her grief.

Perhaps… she realized, unwavering loyalty was not without its flaws.

Her gaze found Gray Worm and she nodded. Gray Worm nodded in return, taking a step back and withdrawing his spear.

"I'm sure they could be of greater use elsewhere." Varys said. "You're safe with me, your majesty. At least as safe as anyone can be tonight."

Daenerys swallowed hard. The Spider spoke with such calm, it was difficult to reconcile that with the sounds of battle outside the tower. She'd made a name for herself across the seas by overthrowing the men who were unfortunate enough to underestimate her. Evil men. Men who deserves the justice that came to them at her hands. But before her stood a man, eunuch or not, who did not underestimate her. No, he saw her, all of her, and, unlike her adoring followers, he found her wanting.

She turned her attention to Gray Worm.

"I will be fine. Go where you're needed." She said.

Gray Worm bowed and lead his men from the tower, leaving Daenerys alone with the spymaster turned commander.

"I gather that Ser Jorah is lost to us." Varys observed.

Daenerys swallowed hard, but could not find her voice to speak. Instead, she nodded.

"You have my condolences. He was a uniquely capable man and devoted to fault."

"I didn't mean…"

"We all have our moments of weakness." Varys said, he voice momentarily sympathetic. "But private griefs must stay just that: _private_. When one chooses to raise oneself up above their fellow man they sacrifice the right to grieve as their fellow man. You have named yourself queen. You must be queen. No matter the pain you face."

"You speak too freely."

"Because someone must."

Daenerys looked down in shame. _Are you a sheep? No, you're a dragon. Be a dragon._ Lady Olena's words echoed in her mind. How had she grown so small? She was the mother of dragons. She brought the slavers of Slavers Bay to their knees. When had she lost the conqueror she'd been? When had she waned into a scared little girl?

The last time she remembered being herself was in Kings Landing. Standing with Jon Snow in the dragon pit. Looking at the ruins of the place where her ancestors had turned dragons into slaves.

A dragon was not meant to be caged and the same could be said for the Targaryens. She'd been in a cage of her own ambitions since her ships landed at Dragonstone. She'd come to Westeros for a throne, but instead she'd found herself bending to a land that was hers by right but not by nature. Westeros was the wheel. She'd come to break it and instead found herself chained to it. She had filled the masses with wonder and awe as much as her dragons, but she was wasting away. Westeros was making her small. She could see now that this place was always to be the doom of the Targaryens.

She never should have come to Westeros.

A dragon was not meant to be a slave.

Not even to the Iron Throne.

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**Please review!**


	22. Chapter 22: Jon

Jon hunched close to Rhaegal's spiny neck, gripping with all his might even as the abuse his body had suffered began to make itself manifest as the sheer of rush of pure adrenaline had begun to fade. The great beast's wings beat the air to submission as dragon and rider raced after the shrinking shape of Viserion.

To Jon's surprise, the Night King and his wight dragon were moving away from the Godswood. But to Jon's thinking, it was the one stroke of luck they'd seen this entire night. He was more than happy to take the win in the midst of so much death and destruction.

Heading safely away from Bran and the legions of dead, Jon felt a slight surge of relief needling through his exhaustion. In that moment, he felt something akin to hope. Maybe, just maybe, he stood a chance of overcoming the Night King.

And if he somehow managed to slay the Night King? What then? Would another White Walker take up the mantle? He didn't know. Perhaps they would be just as fucked as they were now, but if the gods were kind perhaps it would be the advantage they needed to win the night.

He kept his gaze on the spot of greater darkens ahead that was Viserion. He kept his focus on the task hand. He couldn't afford any distractions. Couldn't allow his thoughts to stray back to Winterfell, the home of his youth, the place he'd always longed to belong but never truly felt like he did until he spent his first night in the Lord's chambers with his lady-wife. He couldn't let himself be distracted by he thought of those old walls crumbling as their carefully crafted defenses crumbled.

Neither couldn't allow his concern to stray to Daenerys and Drogon. Perhaps he didn't love his queen as he ought, but he loved her the best he was able. He saw the potential for greatness in her. He saw someone who could be a great ruler. But his white-haired queen would have come to his aid by now if she was able. She hadn't, so she wasn't able and that meant… he didn't want to think about what that meant.

He couldn't afford to let his focus stray to his loved ones in the Godwood either. The brother he no longer recognized as the boy he'd left broken and unconscious and the sister who'd always held a place close to his heart. Not brother and sister in truth, but he loved them no less for the distance in their blood.

He didn't dare let his thoughts wander freely to the caravan. He couldn't allow himself to think of the horrors their relatively undefended women and children had encountered. He couldn't think of Sam and Gilly and Little Sam and the danger that had come for them.

And most of all, he couldn't afford to think of Sansa… his lovely Sansa… but he did anyway. He couldn't block the image of her hair, red as blood, fanned across trampled earth. Her face as white as snow. Her pale eyes wide and unseeing, staring blankly up at the black sky above. If her light went out, he couldn't see how it would matter if the dawn ever came.

If he succeeded. If he brought down the Night King, it would mean nothing to him if he lost her.

But bringing an end to the army of the dead wasn't about him or what he wanted or needed. His people hadn't named him King in the North to pursue his own selfish desires. No, they named him King because they knew at the end of the day he would do what he believed to be right and honorable, no matter the personal cost. Even though he'd surrendered the title of king when he bent the knee to Daenerys, he still held fast to the same idealistic principles that had driven him to the Wall to take the black in the first place.

It didn't matter if Sansa was his world because in the end, his own needs didn't matter. He was one man. In the face of humanities survival, his own survival mattered little. And though it was everything to him, Sansa's survival mattered little as well.

If they won the war but he lost her… Then he'd do what he'd done before when he'd lost more than he thought he could bare. He'd soldier on. He'd give everything he had to the best cause he could find for as long as breath remained in his lungs. And when his final breath expired, he just hoped someone would take his bones back to their true home, back to Sansa.

Viserion made a sharp turn and suddenly the ice dragon was coming straight for them. Jon leaned into Rhaegal, guiding his true father's namesake into a steep dive.

Ice blue flames lit up the night, missing Rhaegal's left wing by a breath.

Realizing this was a fight they could not outrun, Jon and Rhaegal turned to face their pursuer.

"Dracarus." Jon yelled into the night and fire met ice in a blinding explosion.

As the flames faded, the dragons collided. They spiraled down in a tangle of claws and teeth.

Jon clung on for dear life, his hands frozen and stiff and aching in protest, but still he did not let go. He squinted into the dark, spiraling madness for a glimpse of the Night King upon Viserion's back, but he saw no glint of glowing blue eyes.

In that moment, he knew in his bones that no matter how long and hard he looked he would not find his enemy. He had been mislead.

The Night King had not been upon Viserion's back when the Wight Dragon had lead them so far away from the Godswood. No… When Jon was not lured away to the caravan, his enemy devised another plan. A wild goose chase.

And now Jon was a league away from Bran.

Gods, he was a fool to think that he alone could bring down this great threat.

By the seven, he prayed that he had not abandoned Sansa for nothing.

As the dragons crashed into the snowy field, Jon was thrown from Rhaegal's back, not such a great height as the last one, but he slammed into a tree with enough force to leave him jarred and dazed.

The dragons recovered more quickly. They circled one another in a tense dance of hisses and roars and bursts of flame.

There was no way back to the fray, so long as Viserion blocked the way. No way to protect Bran or find his way back to Sansa. No way to do his part.

_Big men fall just as quickly as little ones if you put a sword through their hearts, Jon. _Ned's words rang as true in his head as they had when first he'd heard them all those years ago. But could the same be said for a dragon? They bled the same as any other beast. Surely they died the same?

Jon staggered to his feet and drew Longclaw from it's sheath. It was foolhardy, he had no doubt of that, but in the darkest hour when hope was dwindling, what did caution matter? What was it to him if he survived now but failed those he loved most.

Fear roiled inside him, but he pushed it down. He would not be paralyzed when his inaction could cost him all he held dear. He closed his eyes and conjured the faces most dear to him.

He saw Bran, older and changed, but still in there beneath the remote exterior. Almost a man.

He saw Arya, the formidable woman, but also the little girl she'd been when he'd given her first sword to her. _First lesson: stick them with the pointy end._

And Sansa… When he thought of her, he saw it all. The baby girl Ned had told him to always watch over. The young girl with a head full of songs. The woman who'd turned from porcelain to iron. His winter love. His red wolf. _Don't you dare be a hero. _If only she could see him not. She wouldn't be surprised, he didn't think. She knew him to well to expect any different.

He let out a slow, steadying breath, opened his eyes and took in the scene before him.

The dragons were still circling one another, gauging the others strengths and looking for weaknesses. Distracted, but on high alert. One wrong move on his part and Viserion would roast him.

He had exactly one shot at this, so he had to make it count.

He licked his lips as he gathered his resolve, tightening his resolve.

He waited until Viserion's back was to him and he made a run for it.

Rhaegal let loose a blast of flame into the sky. Jon wasn't sure if it was intentional or blessed timing, but it bought him the seconds he desperately needed to roll under Viserion. Once in place, with all his might, he drove Longclaw up into Viserion's chest.

The Wight dragon reared back from the sudden pain.

Jon closed his eyes, waiting to be trampled or incinerated. Instead he heard the sound of shattering ice and an explosions of icy shards rained down upon him.


	23. Chapter 23: Davos

Even several yards away, the heat of the flaming walls licked at Davos cold burned cheeks. He and everyone else froze for a moment, staring at the impossible wall of flames in wonder. He might not harbor fond feelings for Melisandre or her Lord of Light, but he couldn't deny the power either wielded, the display of which had come not a minute too soon at that.

A shudder ran through him. Where'd her power come from this time? Last time she'd made a big show the cost had been a life for a life and dear sweet Shireen had paid the ultimate price. Davos wondered what Stannis would have thought, should he have lived long enough to know that all that came of his _great_ sacrifice was a resurrected bastard.

So long has he admired Stannis, looked at the grave figure and saw not only a king in the making but a good and just man. Had he always been deceived? Or did power have a way of corroding even the stoutest heart? And if that were true, who had the red woman been before the power came for her too?

He let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. As he came back to his senses, he heard the growing murmur of a courtyard full of the able and less able bodies regaining their senses as well during the brief respite from chaos. They'd been granted a boon, it seemed, a moment to breathe in the midst of utter madness. They'd be fools to waste it. This was the closest thing to a chance they were like to get.

He looked around as activity resumed.

A hand grabbed his shoulder making his heart lurch into his throat. He looked around and found the imposing figure of Ser Brienne at his side. Blood darken one side of her face and it looked as though a chunk had been ripped from her cheek, a chunk that looked suspiciously like a bite. The sight and thought filled Davos with a queazy unease. The lady knight, however, seeming either unaware or unconcerned by the unsightly wound even as her blood ran and crusted down her neck and blackened her blue armor.

"What's the witch doing?" Brienne asked, jerking her pale blonde head toward Melisandre who's eyes were closed and arms outstretched. The Red Priestesses brow was furrowed in concentration and her lips moved constantly in silent words Davos couldn't make out.

"Something big." He said, remembering his own words to Melisandre. Apparently her god has something big up his sleeves after all.

"How long can she keep it up?" Brienne asked, her gaze never staying in one place long as she scanned the state of their remaining forces. To call the remaining soldiers shambles would have been a generous overstatement.

"Not long." Melisandre said, opening her eyes and briefly meeting Davos gaze before closing them again. Once closed, the crease between her brows deepened. There was a tinge of of ashy gray spreading across the priestesses porcelain complexion and though Davos didn't know what it was she was doing, he felt sure it was killing her.

"We'd best make use of what time we have then." Brienne said. "I'll begin evacuations."

"Go to the Spider." Davos said. "Tell him Winterfell is falling."

"What about you?" Brienne asked.

Davos glanced at Melisandre, the necklace around her neck was glowing as viciously bright as the flames around them.

He considered the lady knight he'd once been at odds with due to their conflicting loyalties. A shame how much destruction and death had been caused by such trivial things. He was just glad to be on the same side now, to know her as an ally and perhaps even friend.

"She says this Lord of hers has plans for me. Suppose I'd best find out what they are." Davos said, a wave of peace washing over him. "It's been a privilege knowing you, Ser Brienne."

Brienne bowed her head. "May we meet again, Ser Davos."

With that, she turned on her heel and charge into the night.

Davos reluctantly turned his attention back to the Red Woman. The gray was growing and with it the glow of the gems on her necklace. So long he'd wished her dead, fitting, he supposed, that now he'd be praying that she live forever.

He approached her.

"What can I do?" He asked.

She opened her eyes and looked at him, they too were glowing, as though there was a fire inside her, burning her up.

"Keep me on my feet," She said. "When I fall, so do the flames."

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**Short chapter, but most of the rest of the long night will likely be fairly short chapters due to the need to jump between events and perspectives. Speaking of... we are heading toward some rather big events and likely more deaths. I've got a few potential deaths that I'm struggling with, characters who could live or die but their fates aren't set in stone yet... I don't want to give spoilers, but I'm struggling with going full GRRM or showing some mercy. So if you guys want to help me decide, let me know what characters MUST live or MUST die in your book and I'll see if that helps me with some of my decisions. Sometimes it's hard to be the God of Death. So leave a review and maybe save a fictional life!**


	24. Chapter 24: Sandor

Fire… Everything was fire. Even at a safe distance, he could feel the heat of it clawing up the destroyed side of his face. Someone shook his shoulder and he whirled on them, slamming the unknown assailant into the stone wall.

"Stand down, Clegane." Beric rasped through the pressure of Sandor's arm against his windpipe. "I'm not your enemy."

"Says you." Sandor growled, but lowered his arm anyway. "This your fucking Lord of Light's doing?"

"I do not claim to know his will, any more than I claim to know the purpose for which he's kept me alive." Beric said, sound very much like he was winding up for another one of his unwelcome sermons. "But not is not the time for such musings. Now we must get everyone out of Winterfell, through the tunnels."

"We?" Sandor sneered. "Fuck we."

"Ser Brienne…"

"And fuck the blonde cunt."

Beric frowned and stared him down for a long moment, but the one-eyed knight didn't scare Sandor, not near so much as the flames around them. He wasn't about to get himself killed on the orders of Brienne or anyone else.

"Clegane, the castle will fall in hours, if not minutes. We must do our part to save those we can." Beric pressed.

"Then find yourself another fucking hero. I'm not interested." Sandor growled, turning to leave, and finding himself face to face with the Baratheon Bastard.

No one had to tell him that the murderous little Stark girl's boyfriend was Robert's illegitimate son. They didn't need to. Anyone with eyes could have told as much just by looking at the youth. The young man was the spitting image of the fat old fuck in his younger days before living hard wore away his pretty features. Not that any of that mattered to Sandor, save the fact that the boy was the one thing on this godsforsaken earth that he'd seen kindle a flicker of life behind Arya's cold dead gaze. That, unfortunately, meant more to him than he cared to admit. Far as he could tell, the girl took all the lessons he'd imparted on her to heart, and he wasn't so sure that was a good thing. For survival, maybe, but for living?

"What you looking at?" Sandor growled, hefting up the very weapon the boy had crafted for him in a threatening manner.

"A worthless shit." The boy said, his voice steady and bold despite the fact that his face was pale a snow save for the gore smattered across it. Blood and filth, but, so far as Sandor could tell, not his own. "You were a worthless shit when you kidnapped Arya from the Brothers and you're a worthless shit now."

Sandor took a menacing step toward the boy, but the dark haired bastard held his ground.

"What d'you know 'bout it?"

"I know you been through hell. We've all been through hell, now. But at the end of the day you have a choice. You let it define you or you let it drive you. And I can tell you if run from your demons now, you're never gonna stop. There won't be any place or anything left to stop for."

"I'm not dying for no fucking dragon queen."

"I'm not dyin' for no fucking dragon queen." The boy countered. "I'm fightin' so I get to see the one face I give a damn about again. I'm fightin' so I can look her in the eye when I do."

Arya… the boy loved the younger Stark girl. It was written clear as day across the idiot boy's lovelorn face.

Sandor's vision blurred. _You won't hurt me. _The memory of the pale little face looking at him, still too scared to meet his gaze for long, stung his heart. He'd wanted nothing more than to keep that little bird safe. To keep her soft and safe and untainted by the world. He'd never decided what exactly he'd wanted from or felt for the little bird, but he'd known he felt something different for her than he'd ever felt for anyone else. She'd been good and pure and he'd wanted her, but he'd wanted her to stay that way, good and unsullied by his bloodstained hands. How refreshingly simple it must be to be the bastard before him. To just love a girl and know that a future with her was possible if only he made it back to her.

Sandor knew no such thing, even if he wanted a future like that, he could never have with her. The perfect little bird of his memories had hardened into someone capable of meeting his gaze but no more capable of loving him than she'd been all those years ago in King's Landing. What did it matter if he could look her in the eye if he couldn't have her?

But Arya still could… she didn't have to be the mean old fuck that time had hardened him into. But only if this boy of hers kept that spark alive and fanned it back into a living flame.

Sandor let out a heavy breath that sounded more like a growl.

"Let's get out of this fucking place."

* * *

"Hurry," the one-eyed zealot bellowed as he and the bastard lead the way down into the crypts, toward the hidden tunnels below that lead out of the castle and away from certain death. Sandor followed behind the two fucks at a safe distance, not wanting anything to do with the torches both wielded with cavalry disregard. Being trapped with flames in such a confined space with bodies pressing against him on all sides made his skin crawl.

Deeper they wandered into the earth, until they no longer passed the statues of dead Starks, instead just rows upon rows of bones stacked up to his shoulder height of unnamed and forgotten dead.

The Northmen were twisted fucks. At least in the South they buried their dead and forgot about them. No need to revisit the decaying bones of those who were no longer living. Not like they cared anyway.

They reached a dead end and Beric came to a stop, turning back to Sandor.

"Now it is time to play your part, Clegane."

"Huh?"

The one-eyed fuck indicated the blocked way. "The mouth of the tunnel is blocked by a great stone."

"You want me to move it?" Sandor gave him a scathing look. "Fucking cunt."

Despite his annoyance, he shouldered past the boy and dug his shoulder into the stone, pushing with all his might. He felt a slight budge and then nothing.

"Take this." The boy said to someone and in an instant was by Sandor's side, shouldering the load. Slowly, the great rock began to shift. At first an inch, then enough that an arm might fit through. Just a little further. Just a little more.

"Stop!" Beric yelled.

Sandor looked up and yanked the boy back as Beric dove between the bastard and the opening, flaming sword in hand.

Beric blocked the view for a moment, then swayed and fell back, a knife sheathed in his one good eye. Dead… _really_ dead this time with no cocksucking Thoros to bring him back.

Bile rose in Sandor's throat, but he looked through the opening and saw glowing blue eyes in the dark and knew he had no time to lament the crusty knights final passing. Instead, he grabbed up the fallen knight's flaming sword and looked back to the boy who'd already reclaimed his battle hammer.

"We're not dying for no fucking dragon queen, you hear?" He growled.

The boy swallowed hard but nodded and crushed the skull of the first wight to squeeze through the opening who his great hammer.

* * *

**I'm not sure how long I can keep going at this rate, but for the past couple weeks I've really been in the mood to work on this story. I think it helps that I can finally see the end of the battle, at which point I can get back to the kind of storytelling I'm more comfortable with (aka not massive battles). In the meantime, I've got a pretty good plan for the remainder of the battle, with the exception of a few lives that still hang in the balance. To kill or not to kill... that is the Game of Thrones questions, isn't it?**

**Oh, and p.s. the next chapter will be a Sansa POV. Hope that's good news in everyone's book ;)**


	25. Chapter 25: Sansa

Sansa drew her dragon glass dagger, her hand shaking. She let out a slow, steadying breath as she turned around to face the bone-chilling noise behind her. A hysterical bubble of terror rose up her throat and escaped as a slightly manic laugh at the sight of the spider behind her. The beast was larger than a draft horse and icicles coated its may legs like a thousand frozen daggers. Its many eyes glittered at her, burning with the same cold blue fire as the dead.

Several abandoned carts littered the road between Sansa and the ice spider, but that did nothing to make her feel safe. This was not the kind of threat one simply ran away from. Sometimes you looked into a creatures eyes and saw your death looking back.

Had Ramsay known that feeling as he looked into the feral eyes of his hounds? Or had it been her own eyes that testified to him the inevitability of his death? No… She didn't think he'd seen that truth in either place. Ramsay, for all his brutality and cleverness had lacked one crucial trait to be wise. He lacked a belief of his own vulnerability. Everyone else was just a sack of meat, but he was untouchable. And that reckless confidence, the belief that there would always be bodies to throw in the way of his own demise, had been his undoing.

While Sansa did not know if she could consider herself wise, she was well aware of her own fragile existence. She was well aware that she was just one delicate girl in the face of a world that was made to crush delicate things.

And looking at the giant spider, she knew that it would be her end. The realization hit her like a wave… actually in truth she didn't know what a wave felt like. Despite her years in King's Landing, so very close to the water, and her escape from Joffery's wedding by boat, she'd never done more than dip a toe in the ocean. She was sure Arya had dove in head first within a day of reaching the Red Keep, but not Sansa. Their Septa said it was undignified and for so long the concept of dignity dictated her every action.

So many injustices she'd suffered and tiny joys she'd missed for the sake of preserving her dignity. So much of life shed denied herself for the sake of doing what she'd thought she was supposed to do at the time. And what had it got her? Nothing. Despite her most sincere efforts, she'd come up short in the game time and time again.

She'd written to her family to stand down against the Lannister's per Cersei's tutelage in the naive belief that it would preserve her father's life. And he'd lost his head for her efforts.

She'd been such a fool.

For so long, she'd always believed that someone would come and save her, but at every turn she'd been wrong.

No one ever came to save her until she learned to save herself.

A lesson she learned when she fled the Boltons and was rescued by Brienne.

No, she knew all to well that the knights of her favorite songs and stories were fictional. The men those stories were based on were surely no better than the many ruthless men she'd known.

The spider climbed up onto the first cart, it's many eyes glittering.

She looked around, there was nowhere to hide and running would only get her so far before she was overtaken. No, she would not die like that. She'd lived too long on her knees to die that way.

She'd been a pawn for so long, passed between the hands of people more powerful than she, she didn't want her life to end the same way.

Perhaps she would die, but she would die on her own terms.

She would die trying to save herself.

She would die with her heart and mind far from the despair of this dark and icy road.

In her heart she'd reclaim all the broken pieces she'd lost along the way. She'd be whole. She'd be back at Castle Black with the man who had once been her bastard brother but had grown to be her everything. Laughing and smiling when she'd thought she'd never be able to do either again. She'd be a sweet summer child in Winterfell again, with her brothers and sister when all thoughts of war and winter were distant impossibilities troublesome only to those no longer in possession of their youth. She'd stand beneath the weirwood tree with her love and reclaim her ability to love and be loved. She'd stand at the foot of the Iron Throne when she still believed that she was meant for greatness, when her greatest dream was to be the wife of a handsome prince and her greatest fear that she might do something undignified and bring shame on herself and her family. She'd be young again. Though young in years, she no longer felt her youth. She felt as weary as the crone and as battle worn as the warrior.

If this was the end, she'd be grateful for the time she'd been given and the brief joys that had brightened the darkness of her days. She'd be grateful that she could say that she'd loved and been truly loved in return.

If this was the end, she could go peacefully, knowing that for all her faults and failings she had grown into a good person. Though far from perfect, she'd become a better person than she'd been at the start. She'd set aside her childish selfishness and become someone she thought her parents would have been proud of, had they lived to see her. Someone Arya, Theon, and Bran would be pleased to call sister. Someone Jon would be proud to call wife, no matter who might condemn the both of them for it. She'd loved fully and deeply despite the wounds the world had left on her soul and she thought that was something, though perhaps less recognized than great feats of heroism, to take pride in.

The spider jumped to the next cart, chittering in excitement. It was close enough now that she could see it's rider. An imposing figure with a scraggly white beard and skin tinged blue by ice.

A chill ran down her spine. This man… beast… she did not know what to call it, did not feel like the other wights she'd seen.

Shaken, she took a step back. She'd never seen a White Walker before, but there was no doubt in her mind that that was what the terrifying figure was.

Somehow, the man filled her with even greater dread than the beast. The panic rising in her chest made her temporarily forget all the reasons she'd decided to stand her ground. She turned to flee and stopped short at the sight of a dragon diving down from the sky.

_Jon?_ Tears sprung to her eyes. She hadn't even allowed herself to hope he'd come to her rescue. Didn't want to allow herself to feel any sort of resentment when he didn't come. But now, her heart thrilled and for a moment she though that perhaps the songs weren't completely without merit.

Then she saw the glow of fire building in its throat.

_When the moment arrives, you will know. And when it comes, act. If you hesitate, all is lost. _Bran's seemingly nonsensical words rang suddenly in her head. What had he said?

"Bend the knee." Sansa remembered, dropping to her knee without a second thought as dragon flame streamed above her head, the heat so intense she thought her hair might catch fire.

She squeezed her eyes shut until the heat subsided.

Slowly she opened them and got to her feet. She looked around for the dragon and the rider she felt sure would leap from its back and come running to her, sweeping her up in his arms and kissing her like he'd almost lost her, because he had.

But the dragon was gone.

As was the spider.

She let out a sigh of relief, realizing only then how tense she'd held her muscles.

Then she saw movement from the ashes.

And the White Walker rose from the wreckage.

A scream died in her throat as the terrifying figure strode swiftly toward her. She wanted to run but her legs felt frozen in place.

_When the moment arrives, you will know. And when it comes, act._

She'd thought the warning was for the dragon fire, but to bend the knee was to obey. But Bran had warned her to act. She looked down at the knife in her hand.

_If you hesitate, all is lost._

She tightened her grip on the hilt. Not allowing herself to second-guess or delay, she threw herself at the approaching White Walker. And taking Arya's advice, she stuck him with the pointy end.

* * *

**I'm finding I have better luck keeping my writing momentum going if I post often because all your lovely reviews keep me motivated, so hopefully work, school, and life continue to cooperate. Thank you all for being so committed to this story, you keep me going on this crazy endeavor I got myself into! **


	26. Chapter 26:Arya

A shiver trailed down Arya's spine as she surveyed the still darkness of the Godswood. Not from cold. She was used to cold, used to enduring all sorts of discomforts. No, it was unease. The wood was quiet, too quiet. No scuffling of small animals through the underbrush. Even the men around her seemed to breathe more quietly than they should. The unending stillness when she knew the battle for their very existence raged so near was unsettling. Even her well honed nerves were not equipped for waiting for the end.

She pushed off the thoughts of Gendry and Jon and Sansa that clamored for her attention, a natural response to boredom, but not one she could embrace. No, to be prepare, she needed to embody the peaceful apathy of No One. She could not afford distractions like the thoughts of Jon and Sansa and the stolen moments she'd witnessed. She could not afford to think of the future and what that future might look like if both she and Gendry lived through this… would she still be milady? No, in this unnaturally long night, she could only entertain one thought.

_Not today._

She glanced back at Bran, eyes still white and rolled back in his head. She couldn't begin to understand what her brother had become, but she thought she could relate to how he got there. Whereas in the House of Black and White the faceless men had tried to carve out Arya Stark to make room for No One, she thought it seemed as though someone had crammed a great many people into her brother. It wasn't so much that he was gone as that he was pushed so far down that she couldn't find him, that he couldn't find himself. That, at least, she could relate fully. She knew what it was to struggle to find herself. Sometimes she still lost herself to No One.

As much as she didn't want to be, she was still No One.

But she was also Arya Stark.

And she hoped one day to be able to reconcile the two.

For now, she'd settle for surviving the onslaught to come.

A sharp intake of breath pulled her attention back to Bran. She swiftly went to his side and knelt beside his chair, resting her hand on his arm, protected from the cold beneath thick furs.

"What news?"

"Drogon has be injured in the process, but Sansa endures." Bran said, flatly.

Arya let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. "She's safe? What happened?"

Bran turned his head toward her, but his gaze didn't focus on her, almost as though he was looking at something else, somewhere else.

"She stuck him with the pointy end."

Arya felt a swell of heat in her chest that she realized after a moment was pride. She didn't know what Sansa had faced, but she knew she'd faced it well. Unbidden, the memory of Sansa screeching about how much she loved that prat Joffery bubbled up in Arya's mind and she couldn't help but smile at how long ago and ridiculous that memory seemed. They'd once been those girls, but she couldn't even remember what it felt like to be that girl. She wondered if it was the same for Sansa, or if, it was yet another after effect of her time with the faceless men.

"Good girl." She touched the space on her belt that felt so empty without Needle.

"The White Walkers gather." Bran said, turning away from her, staring blankly into the night.

Arya rose to her feet and squinted into the darkness. She could just barely make out movement among the trees. She shivered despite herself and tightened her grip on the spear Gendry had crafted for her. If this was how it would end, well, she would take every last one of them with her to meet her god.

A hand grabbed her arm and she looked down to find Bran's grasp tight on her forearm.

She frowned at him, confused.

"I need you by my side." Bran said, his gaze truly meeting hers for the first time since childhood. In those dark eyes, she could almost see her brother. And her chest ached for the children they'd once been and could never be again.

"Yes," She said. "To fight."

He shook his head, "A different battle."

He gently pulled her back and she allowed him to draw her closer, they were practically nose to nose when he placed his hand on her cold cheek.

And everything went black.

* * *

Sun warmed Arya's face and the sound of children laughing warmed her heart. Her eyes stung as she blinked into the brightness. She found herself atop the wall of Winterfell, looking down into the courtyard.

But it wasn't the Winterfell she'd left hours ago, marred by the Ironborn and the Boltons.

No, this was the Winterfell of summer.

Below in the courtyard, she saw Jon sparing with… gods… with Rob. She'd know that head of curls anywhere, even if she never saw them again for her entire life, which, she realized with a sinking sorrow, she never would. The eldest Stark laughed and shown like a star, bright and brilliant and destined to be snuffed out too soon.

And watching the boys spare? Her father and mother, caught in whispered conversation and sharing tender looks. Arya wanted nothing more than to call to them, but her voice lodged in her throat.

Mimicking his elder brothers, Rickon waved a wood sword in wild disregard, his curls bouncing and dancing in the wind. That sweet summer child who never saw a winter.

"Arya!" A familiar voice shrieked, drawing her gaze back down to the courtyard where Sansa's beautifully tended hair had been freshly covered by straw.

She caught the flash of her own retreating form before the sound of Robb and Theon's laughter distracted her.

The shriek distracted Jon, allowing Robb to disarm him.

Jon's gaze instantly found Sansa in a way that told Arya that he had already been aware, perhaps was always aware, of where Sansa perched neatly on a bale of clean hay, utterly absorbed in conversation with _Ser_ Waymar Royce, the youngest son of Lord Yohn Royce, on his way North to take the black. Arya remembered him. She remembered how Sansa had fawned over him like he was a knight straight out of her songs. Even then, Arya had thought he was a pompous windbag. The boy made it like he was so important, when everyone knew perfectly well that he was heading to the wall because it was his only shot at making a name for himself.

"Seems so long ago, doesn't it?"

Arya looked around and found Bran beside her. But not the Bran of this time who climbed a parapet behind the elder version. The elder version was also not the Bran of her time, crippled and smothered by a greater entity. This was the true Bran, the Brandon Stark he should have been and might have grown to be if the gods had been kinder to their family.

She stared at him for a long moment and his face split into a wide smile.

"Good to see you, sister." He said.

She threw her arms around him like she would never let him go.

She didn't know what this place was or why she was here, but in that moment it didn't matter. She had her brother back, truly back.

And for the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt genuine tears on her cheeks.

"Now, now." Bran chuckled, slowly prying her loose and holding her at arms length so he could get a good look at her. "There's much we have to discuss and very little time."

"I don't understand."

Bran smiled, but this time it was tinged with sorrow. "You will."

* * *

**So, I wasn't planning to post today, but I've had several requests for an Arya update and I got to rearranging and outlining my remaining plans for this episode. I think I've solidified the remaining death(s, who am I kidding? This is Game of Thrones, after all.) and this episode should end up being about 35 chapters. We're in the endgame now. **


	27. Chapter 27:Brienne

Brienne to the stone stair to Varys's watch tower two at a time. Her lungs seared from the unending abuse she'd subjected her body to through the night. As she approached the top of the wall, the heat of the flaming stones stung the gaping wound in her cheek. She didn't recall exactly when the wound had happened, but that was the thing about battle, she'd suffered a great many injuries she'd been entirely unaware of until the mental fury had cooled.

She burst into the tower and was disarmed by the attitude of relative calm that hit her.

Varys stood at a window licked by the red priestess's flame, with his arms folded behind his back, his posture relaxed like he was overlooking a parade rather than a losing battle for survival.

Brienne grimaced at the eunuch, unable to make sense of him.

"Lord Varys." She heaved the words from her winded lungs. "Winterfell is falling. A retreat is underway. It's time to abandon the castle."

A soft sob stole Brienne's attention and she looked around, finding a small figure staring at the stone wall. Beneath the mud and blood, the tear stained face was nearly unrecognizable as the Dragon Queen.

"Your Highness." Brienne said, respectfully bowing her head. She considered herself sworn to the Stark girls and until they bent the knee, she would know no king or queen. But regardless of her choices since, she'd been raised as a proper lady and the courtly expectations where ingrained in her as surely as swordplay —even if she found most every courtly interaction to be deeply mortifying, turning her uncommon size into a painful spectacle.

The queen didn't even look at her, as though transfixed by the stone. She felt a sudden mix of emotions for the foreign queen, chief among which was pity, but followed quickly by distaste.

She did not judge shock or grief, but there was a time and a place for such reactions. A queen could not afford to falter, not when her people needed her most.

"When a White Walker falls, so does a section of the wights." Varys said. "As though it is the head and the wights the body."

Brienne turned her attention to the spymaster. "What do you think that means?"

"Perhaps that they are tied to the one who made them." Varys said. "When you take the head, you kill the body also."

"Meaning?" Brienne press, buzzing with too much adrenaline to keep up with the calm man's thoughts.

"Meaning we miscalculated." He said. "Forget the wights. All that matters is bringing down the White Walkers. And… just maybe, the Night King is their head."

"You're saying kill the Night King…"

"Kill his army." Varys nodded.

Brienne glanced back at Daenerys. "The dragons… Jon Snow…"

Varys shook his head. "I've seen no sign of them for hours. We must fear the worst."

Brienne nodded. "So our fates rest in the Godswood."

Varys tilted his head in agreement.

"Come quickly." Brienne said. "I'll get you to the tunnels."

"Then you'll go to the Godswood."

Brienne didn't bother to confirm, she just turned and hurried down the stone steps, trusting the spymaster and the shaken queen to follow.

* * *

_Through the haze of time, Arya quickly realized, things looked different than when lived through the first time. The way the steam hung thick as smoke in the air as the wrecked figure of a once beautiful man shuffled toward the hot water of the baths._

_"Not so hard. You'll scrub the skin off." Jaime Lannister chided to the woman in the tub._

_"What are you doing here?" The unmistakable figure of Brienne asked from the waters._

_"I need a bath." He said, struggling with his filthy clothes. "Help me out of these rags."_

_Even as a captive, he had not problem barking orders and was promptly assisted by a serving man._

_"Now get out." He said as soon as his shirt was off and he could manage on his own._

_The serving man scampered off without a word._

_Jaime Lannister took off his pants and Arya looked away. She was not overly encumbered with qualms regarding modesty, but she also wasn't keen to see a man her father's age naked._

_"There's another tub." Brienne shrieked._

_"This one suits me fine."_

_Arya looked at her brother who studied the scene before them without any evidence of her own discomfort._

_"Why here?" She asked._

_"Because it is important." Bran said._

_"Important." _

_"This is the moment when the oathbreaker broke." Bran explained._

_"And why is that important?" _

_A loud rush of water drew Arya's attention back to the bath where Brienne stood, glaring down at her former captive turned fellow hostage._

_"That was unworthy. Forgive me. You protected me better than most." Jaime said, uncharacteristically penitent. _

_"Don't you mock me." Brienne warned._

_"I'm apologizing. I'm sick of fighting. Let's call a truce."_

_Brienne sank back into the bath. "You need trust to have a truce."_

_"It's important because you can't reforge a sword until it breaks." Bran said._

_Arya studied her brother for a long moment. He was telling her something, she knew that much, she just wasn't quite sure what it is she was supposed to be getting from his words. What was so important as to pull her here, away from the action where she was needed. _

_"Stark?" The half mad by fever man said, cutting through Arya's thoughts. "You think the honorable Ned Stark wanted to hear my side? He judged me guilty the moment he set eyes on me. By what right does the wolf judge the lion? By what right!?"_

_Jaime collapsed and Brienne jumped into action, catching him up in her arms before he could sink beneath the turbulent water._

_"Help! Help! The Kingslayer!" She shouted._

_"Jaime." He mumbled, barely conscious. "My name is Jaime."_

_The memory faded and blurred and Arya turned to Bran, brow furrowed._

_"Reforged into what?"_

_"A good man."_

* * *

**It's been a busy week so far, but I finally managed to get this chapter finished up. I've been committed to keeping chapters to a single POV up until this point, but I was feeling the need to do some more three-eyed raven exposition stuff. If you guys don't mind the split POV (the three-eyed Raven bits will be about one of the main characters from the present part of the chapter) I'll keep sprinkling these in. If you don't like it, let me know and this can be a one time only snippet and I'll go back to the normal format.**


	28. Chapter 28: Davos

Never had Davos felt greater heat, not even when wildfire raged around him at the Battle of Blackwater Bay. The heat coming off of the the red priestess was excruciating, but still he held her up.

He stole a glance at the woman at his side and wished he hadn't. Her once smooth skin now looked like something porcelain dropped from a great height onto a hard surface. Cracks and fissures riddled her skin, and the hot light of fire bled through the gaps.

He didn't know how she could still be alive… wasn't entirely sure she _was_ alive.

He saw movement around him and glanced around, seeing the soldiers from Bear Island, Lyanna Mormont, Bronn, and a handful of others gathered around to make a ragtag barrier between Davos and Melisandre and the gate, now heaving from an assault on the other side.

The gate shuddered again.

"Hold the line." Shrieked Lyanna, her voice small but still commanding.

"Hold the line." Davos repeated to himself. The pain of Melisandre's burning flesh against his own was excruciating, but he couldn't let go, not when every second he bought might save another life.

Melisandre's eyes opened and she drew a wild, rattling breath, turning her shattered face to meet Davos gaze.

"I was wrong. I see it now." She said in a voice not quite her own. "Azor Ahi is not the prince that was promised. There is duality in all things. To end the long night, there are two. One was born to kill a king. The other to rise to a throne."

"Doesn't matter." Davos said, his attention drawn away as the gate came crashing down a a giant wight charged through.

"_Thrice must he be cleansed._" Melisandre raved.

The wight giant tore through the line, flinging full grown men like rag dolls.

"_Once by water._" Melisandra reached up, placing a burning hand on Davos cheek. He winced but did not pull away. "_Once by the blood of a lion._"

Bronn grabbed Lyanna and dragged her away from the fray, kicking and screaming, as her men fell.

"_And once by the beating heart of his love._" The red woman continued, the fissures widening and the fire within glowing brighter.

Davos heard screams, and it took him a moment to realize they were his own and her flesh burned his.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flash of a battle hammer.

"_Only then shall the sun rise, when snow falls at the Iron Throne._" Melisandre finished. Her hand went to the necklace at her throat, flickering with live flames. She ripped it free of her neck and an explosive wave threw Davos away from her.

And then the light was gone. The night seemed even darker in the absence of her flames. Davos blinked into the darkness, trying to make sense of it. She was gone. She was dead. She'd been right. Dead before dawn.

A firm grip grabbed Davos arm and pulled him to his feet.

"Come on, old man." Gendry said gruff, his words muffled be the blood streaming down his face from a clearly broken nose. "You saved me once, s'time I returned the favor."

* * *

_Arya let out a breath at the sight of Jon entering a dark room. His familiar face was a balm in the raging chaos of her mind from the torrent of moments Bran was exposing her to._

_Then she spotted the red woman before the fire and her pulse sped up with anger._

_"What is this?" She asked Bran._

_"Witness." Bran said. _

_"My lady. You weren't at the war council." Jon said to the priestess._

_"I'm not a soldier." The red woman said. _

_I see a darkness in you. And in that darkness, eyes staring back at me: brown eyes, blue eyes, green eyes. Eyes you'll shut forever. Arya shuddered at the words she didn't like to remember, especially since they'd proven so true. As much as she despised the red woman, she put a fair amount of stock in her words._

_"Any advice?" Jon asked_

_"Don't lose."_

_"If I do, if I fall…" Jon shifted uneasily. "Don't bring me back."_

_The red woman looked almost penitent as she said, "I'll have to try."_

_"I'm ordering you not to bring me back." Jon insisted._

_"I am not your servant, Jon Snow."_

_"You are in my camp. I am the commander."_

_"I serve the Lord of Light. I do what he commands." The woman replied, unbending._

_"How do you know what he commands?" Jon challenged, clearly not willing to concede this point._

_Suddenly, the ever confident red woman looked uneasy and shaken."I interpret his signs as well as I can." _

_She studied the flames for a moment, her beautiful brow furrowed in thought. "If the Lord didn't want me to bring you back, how did I bring you back? I have no power. Only what he gives me and he gave me you."_

_"Why?" Jon asked, whether to challenge her or from some desperate need to understand his continued existence, Arya wasn't sure._

_"I don't know." The priestess admitted. "Maybe you're only needed for this small part of his plan and nothing else. Maybe he brought you here to die again."_

_"What kind of god would do something like that?" Jon asked._

_"The one we've got."_

_Jon stared into the fire for a moment and then recoiled as though seeing something within the flames. Arya looked at the flames in hopes of catching a glimpse of what had troubled her brother. Instead, all she found what an overwhelming memory of her water dancing lessons in King's Landing. _

_What do we say to the god of death?_


	29. Chapter 29: Jaime

The clanging of blades kissing in the dark. The moans and cries of men born to fight dragged unwillingly from life. The smell of sweat and blood, heavy even on the frozen air. This, Jaime knew. He knew pain, fighting, and surviving. In his years on the Kingsguard for Robert, all he'd seen of combat was in the training yard and tournaments and while his skill remained sharp his spirit had withered.

Westeros had known peace during those years, but he hadn't.

He'd sated a restless heart with his twisted love affair with Cersei, secret vengeance on a king who'd turned him into a mockery.

It wasn't until he went to war against the eldest Stark boy, the young wolf, that he'd realized he'd been sleep walking through his life. During the years of prosperity, Jaime had known nothing remotely close to peace.

Even when Brienne, on Caitlyn's orders, returned him to King's Landing, the relief of home was quick to wane in the exposure to the corrosive elements there. Courtly life. His father. Cersei.

It had been a relief to be sent away, to be sent back to battle.

He'd never found peace without a blade in his hand.

Never found peace in the arms of the woman he loved.

Until that woman was no longer Cersei.

It was much easier to charge into battle with no fear of death when the loss of life did not seem like a great loss. But now… Now he felt a thrill of fear, fear he'd never known even has he charged a dragon straight on with nothing but his own idiotic courage to push him forward.

Jaime cut down a white walker and looked around for his next assailant. The peaceful woods had shifted to chaos as the white walkers attacked. Unlike the wights, these creatures were an actual enemy. Where the wights were a mindless attacking horde seeking only to spread death, the white walkers where in possession of some form of intelligence. He could see it in each set of icy eyes as their blades crossed. He saw the glimmer of intelligent, the thinking and planning that he'd seen in the eyes of every other soldier he'd ever faced. Perhaps not the same intelligence as man, but that didn't mean it was any lesser.

His heart lurched to his throat at the sight of Pod in combat with another of the men of ice. The white walker was stronger and drove Pod back with easy. Technique meant very little when placed against brute force.

Pod's boot caught on a root and he toppled back onto the smooth ice of the frozen pond, sliding several feet as the white walker stalked after, raising its sword to finish the squire.

Jaime didn't care much for the boy, he'd never been overly generous with his affections, reserving them almost entirely for his immediate family, until Brienne. But he knew what the young man meant to her. Though she didn't show it, he knew she cared deeply for the squire he'd granted her so long ago now. And he knew she might not have made it through all her trials without the Payne boy. And that meant a great deal to him.

He charged across the icy battlefield, shouldering those in combat out of his way to reach the squire.

He let free a cry as he leapt forward, driving Widow's Wail through the back of a White Walker. The strange, icy man made an unholy howl and shattered, shards of ice spraying over Pod.

Pod looked up at Jaime for a long moment, pale from the stress of battle, and then gave a small nod of thanks, which Jaime returned, sheathing the dragon glass sword to free a hand to help the squire to his feet.

"She'd never forgive you if you let me get myself killed." Jaime said by way of explanation, a smirk slipping out. He'd spent too many years leaning into the role of villain and scoundrel that had been put upon him by others to admit the truth, that he was desperately afraid that Brienne would never forgive him if he'd let the boy die.

The hairs on the back of Jaime's neck prickled. He whirled around, searching for the next threat. Instead, he saw the wildlings drawing back to the Weirwood tree, not a single white walker in sight.

"Come on," Jaime pulled Pod after the retreating wildlings.

Jaime shouldered his way past the wildlings until he could see the Stark boy. His heart jolted at the sight of Arya Stark's body sprawled on the snow beside his chair. She was as pale and still as death.

Jaime took a step toward her, but Bran raise a hand.

"Leave her. Hers is a battle unseen."

"What's happening?" Jaime asked.

"She's understanding." Bran said, as though that explained everything, which it didn't.

"And the White Walkers?"

"Clearing the path." Bran said. "Their king has come."

The slow, ominous beat of unseen swords being banged against shields broke the quiet.

"The Night King." Pod whispered, his voice cracking.

Dread seeped into Jaime's gut as he slowly turned to look into the darkness. A lone figure strode slowly across the snow, his steps in time with the banging of shields.

"He has come for me." Bran said.

Jaime heard a flicker of fear cut through the boy's words and was reminded for the first time that despite the years he was still little more than a boy. Whatever else he might be, he was still the ten year old boy Jaime had thrown from a window.

_The things I do for love._

_Kingslayer._

_Oathbreaker._

Bran had told him that he would receive his justice before the long night ended. But what justice could be had for a man like him? A man who stabbed a king in the back to save thousands. A man who fathered four children by his own sister but sacrificed his sword hand to preserve the maidenhead of a good woman. A man who threw a child from a window to protect his secrets, but send away the one bright spot in his existence so the woman he'd grown to cherish could find that same child's sisters and guide them safely home. What other man could be said to be made of equal parts good and evil? What other man was too tainted for redemption and to good for damnation?

He was not a good man.

Nor was he an evil one.

"You're a man of honor, Jaime Lannister." Bran said.

Jaime looked back at the boy, meeting his gaze and feeling seen by the boy for the first time since his return to Winterfell. His hammering heart slowed.

Bronn had once asked him how he'd like to die and he'd known without thinking that there was only one way he'd choose. In the arms of the woman he loved. Even then, as much as he'd wanted to convince himself that woman was Cersei, it was not his sister that his thoughts drifted to in his most private moments.

If he had his choice, he'd die in the arms of the giant blonde fool with all her honor and naivety. But maybe that was the justice.

Maybe the justice was to live for one brief moment as a good man. And die for all the wrongs he'd done.

Jaime drew his dragon glass blade and raised Widow's Wail, stepping in front of the boy he'd crippled.

This would be a good way to die. Not the one of his choosing, but good.

"Flank out." He said to the Wildlings. "They'll attack again. But they don't get to the Starks."

His gaze met the great redheaded oaf's and Tormund's face split in a wide grin.

"Whatever you say, King Killer."

Jaime glanced at Pod, "Stay with Bran. Keep him safe. Nothing else matters." The squire nodded. "And if you see Brienne… Tell her… Tell her…" Jaime glanced back at the Night King, who'd come to a stop, waiting, for what Jaime wasn't sure. "Tell her something."

"Yes, Ser." Pod said.

Jaime turned his full attention to the Night King.

Then he knew in his bones what the man of ice was waiting for, so he took a step forward.

* * *

The great man drew his sword from the forge and looked over the blade. The valyrian steel rippled and glimmered in the low light of the burning coals, the red hot steel looking like living flame.

Arya instinctively took a step toward the weapon. There was something about it, something familiar.

"Who is he?" She asked.

Bran stepped up beside her. "Don't you know?"

She tilted her head, studying the man's face. It was not a face she'd seen in life, but that sword… she knew the blade.

"Husband?" A woman entered enter the forge. Even in her simple brown smock she was the most beautiful woman Arya had ever seen. Her dark hair fell in loose waves and wild flowers were woven among the strands.

The man turned at her voice and an expression of pure adoration graced his face.

The woman, however, did not seem to notice. Her gaze instead turned to the great blade.

"You've finished it." She stepped closer, her expression bright with excitement.

"Almost." The man amended. "I still must temper it."

"And do you know what you must do?"

His eyes darkened and he looked down. The woman reached up and caressed his bearded cheek.

"And do you know what you must do?" She pressed again, though this time her words carried far more weight.

"I do."

"Then do what you must."

She sank to her knees before him and he raise the blade. He closed his eyes, tears flowing free. With an anguished cry that mingled with a cry of pain and ecstasy, he drove the blade through her breast.

Arya gasped in horror, unable to move as she watched the man gather his wife in his arms, holding her as her life force pulsed through the blade in her chest.

"Lightbringer." Bran said.

But Arya shook her head, her gaze drawn to the hilt, a hilt she'd seen many times in her father's hands.

"Ice."

* * *

**Sorry for the wait! Life has been a bit crazy but I'll continue to update as quick as I can get the next chapter ready.**


	30. Chapter 30: Jon

Jon strained his eyes into the dark as Rhaegal's broad wings stirred the air into whipping torrents. From his vantage point on Rhaegal's back hundreds of feet up, all he could see was black below. No longer concerned by another threat from above, Jon guided Rhaegal down, hoping they would spot any white walkers before they themselves were spotted.

The air went from his lungs at the sight of Winterfell.

The walls were blackened and cold.

All the fires had been snuffed out.

The dead surged through openings and over walls like a horde of ants overwhelming a single grasshopper. Size and strength were nothing against an enemy with seemingly endless numbers.

Despite their preparation and plans, Winterfell had fallen to the dead.

His throat burned with bile. He'd lamented agreeing to send those unable to fight in a caravan headed west to the Ironborn's ships, but seeing Winterfell now, he realized they would have been no better protected had they stayed. In the end, it didn't matter how hard they'd tried to prepare and anticipate the moves of their enemy, they'd still failed. In the end, it seemed there was no safe way through this endless night.

Gods, let some of their people have made it out.

Jon shifted their heading toward the Godswood, speeding in a losing race against time.

* * *

"What was that." Arya demanded as the man and wife faded away and she and Bran were transplanted to somewhere else, somewhere colder.

"Azor Ahi." Bran said.

Arya frowned, she recalled the name from some of Old Nan's stories. Some hero of legend, but she couldn't remember the particulars.

"Why did he have Ice?" She demanded.

"He did not." Bran said. "He had Lightbringer."

"I know what I saw." Arya insisted.

"You saw what you need to." Bran corrected.

Arya let out a growl of frustration and grabbed the front of her brother's shirt.

"I don't understand." She snapped. "Stop playing games with me and explain."

"I can't," Bran said. "If I have to explain, you'll never understand.

"A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing." A warbling voice cut through their conversation.

Arya looked around and saw a wizened old man with white hair and milky eyes seated before a fire. beside him at a table sat Sam, though younger than she'd ever seen him.

"Maester Aemon."

She looked around and saw Jon in the doorway, his hands clasped behind his back. He had the look of a boy who thought he had the weight of the world on his shoulders but had yet to learn what that weight truly looked like.

"Lord Commander." The old man said in reply.

"Sam, I'd like to speak to the maester alone."

With the scuff of a chair sliding back, Sam was on his feet, gathering up his papers, and headed out the door.

Once alone, Jon made his way to the old man and took Sam's emptied seat, shifting to face the old man who starred unseeingly toward the fire.

"How are you feeling?"

"Oh like a hundred year old man slowly freezing to death." The maester said, the hint of a chuckle in his weary voice.

"I need your advice. There's something I want to do. Something I have to do. But it will divide the Night's Watch. Bitterly. Half the men will hate me the moment I give the order."

"Half the men hate you already, Lord Commander. Do it." Authority rang in the old voice.

"But you don't know what its is…"

"That doesn't matter." The maester interrupted. "You do. You'll find little joy in your command. But with luck, you'll find the strength to do what needs to be done. Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy, and let the man be born."

Arya looked to her brother, the words hitting her with the weight of a thousand years. She thought she was beginning to understand, and she also knew with sudden certainty that understanding was a burden she didn't want and couldn't refuse.

* * *

Jon kept his gaze fixed on the darker spot within the darkness that he knew to be the Godswood. Maester Aemon had warned him long ago that his path would lead to little joy. He'd always believed those words from the moment the maester imparted the wisdom onto him. He'd excepted his burden to be a heavy one. Never doubted that with the weight of leadership came a degree of certainty that one's path would be riddled with misery. That certainty was only solidified when he'd been murdered by his own men for doing what he believed to be right. Being brought back just seemed to be another cruelty. That was, until the gods returned deigned to return Sansa to him.

After the execution of the man he'd spent his whole life believing to be his father, the thought he'd never see any of the Starks again, but he especially thought his path would never cross with Sansa's. She would marry a king or prince or lord. Nothing would bring her back to the North or him.

Even when he had word of her marriage to the Bolton bastard, he knew she might as well have been a world away.

But then he'd looked down into the yard of Castle Black and seen a waif, almost unrecognizable beneath the years and filth of her journey.

He remembered his first meal with her after Brienne delivered her to Castle Black. She'd been starved and neglected for longer than he could bear to imagine, but still ate like the lady her lady mother had raised.

He'd known without her tell the abuse Ramsay had subjected her to. He'd seen too many things on the wall and beyond it to be naive to what some men were capable of. Her trauma was written in the way she shied away from the other brothers of the Night's Watch but not him.

And from that moment, nothing at all mattered more than insuring she never again had a reason to cower in fear from anyone.

He would be her safety and she was his joy.

It was a sick joke of the gods that even now his duty required him to sacrifice his joy to the dangers of this dark night to save the masses.

The maester warned him that love was the death of duty, but he hadn't found that to be true. No matter how much he loved Sansa, he could not turn his back on the greater good for the sake of one, no matter how precious that one was to him. Perhaps the maester had been right, but if that were so, then Ygritte was right too. Because his love, no matter how deep, was not the death of duty. So it only stood to reason, that he really did know nothing.

"Can you forgive me?" He whispered into the whipping wind, wondering if she'd live to answer the question, or if he'd live to ask it.

* * *

**I received some concerns about Lightbringer being Ice, so I'd just like to clarify that Lightbringer more metaphorically Ice than literally. Azor Ahi is something akin to a reincarnation of the hero of legend, and the same applies for the sword. Sorry if that was a bit unclear, I hope Bran and Arya's conversation cleared it up a bit. I always felt like there were allusions to Lightbringer and Ice being linked in some of the dream sequences in the books, and I thought that was too interesting of a tidbit not to be used in the final season/story.**


	31. Chapter 31: Brienne

"Gambler at heart." Jaime Lannister said, trudging across an old stone bridge, his two hands chained before him. "Wouldn't have guessed it."

Behind him, Brienne gave a vicious shake of the rope.

"Be quick about it."

They walked a ways and then Jaime sank to the ground.

"Oh, I need to rest."

"Get up." Brienne snapped.

Jaime mumbled and complained about corns as Brienne tried to get him back on his feet.

Arya couldn't bring herself to care. Instead, she stared at her brother.

"Why me?" She asked.

"Because…" Bran thought about it for a long moment and she wondered if it would be her brother or the three-eyed raven who answered. She wondered what difference was really left between them.

Did Bran still exist, or was the Raven just showing her what he wanted her to see.

"Because…" Bran tried again. "You're the only one who can. Each and everyone of us have been moved by a million moments to be exactly where we are now, guided to exactly where we must be. It is you, because it must be."

A sudden out burst drew Arya's attention back to the bridge.

Jaime had disarmed Brienne and cut the rope that held him to her. His wrists were still bound, but he was free enough.

Brienne drew her second sword.

Jaime let out a grunt of a laugh and turned the blade in his hand.

"Never understood why some knights felt the need to carry two swords."

The two warriors slowly circled one another.

Jaime turned his back on Brienne and then smooth as a water dancer was facing her again, sword at the ready.

They too measure of one another, Brienne's jaw set in an unpleasant scowl.

"You move well." Jaime observed. "A great beast of a woman."

With that, he attacked. Their blades kissed and sang.

He drew back.

"You shouldn't grimace before you lunge. Gives away the game."

And then he attacked again, their blades crossed again and again as he drove her back down the bridge.

Brienne roared and lunged, but Jaime was too quick and danced to the other side.

"Bit of a quandary for you." Jaime said. "If you kill me, you fail Lady Stark. But if you don't kill me, I'm going to kill you."

* * *

Brienne's breath tore from her lungs in savage bursts of heavy fog on the frozen air as she raced through the dark woods. She barely knew the way in the light, having seldom had cause to kneel before a weirwood tree, but she knew the general direction and desperation was the whip at her heels.

Her foot caught a root and she toppled to the ground in a heap of clanging armor.

"Fuck."

The sudden, forced stop of the fall made her acutely aware of her pounding heart and searing lungs. The pain she could handle, it was the fatigue that would't be ignored. She'd fought many battle, but those all came to an end, but not this night. This endless night seemed to offer no respite to the weary.

She slowly rose, resting for a moment on one knee. Her body protested any further movement.

Gritting her teeth and digging deeper than any battle or journey had required before, she forced herself to her feet.

The sounds of Winterfell had faded, but she could now hear the sounds of a smaller, though no less fierce battle ahead. She was close.

The thought of Jaime, Pod, and Arya, the fact that any delay on her part could be the difference between their lives and death, drove her forward.

She'd failed to save Renley and been right beside him at the time. She'd failed to save Caitlin because duty had taken her miles away from the lady she'd sworn to serve. Again, duty kept her far from the lady she served. There was nothing she could do to protect Sansa. But she could hope to preserve one of Caitlin's daughters, she could fight beside her squire and the man she loved. That was enough.

When she caught sight of the blood red leaves of the weirwood tree, it was not the only red that met her gaze.

Swords clashed and countless divots dotted the snow from steaming droplets of blood sinking into the snow.

The chaos made it difficult for her eyes to focus on any particular sight. Wildings and White Walkers thrusted and parried in a deadly dance. Bodies sprawled across the upturned snow, a dusting of fresh powder veiling their faces.

A White Walker raised his hands and the fresh dead rose, eyes glowing blue.

The living were putting up a commendable fight, but what hope was there for victory when every man lost was a contribution to the enemies numbers?

Her pounding heart slowed with dread when her gaze found him. She never wanted to admit it, especially not to him, but her gaze always found him. Whether across a crowded wedding or on the battlefield, her eyes and heart always wandered to Jaime.

Even before she loved him, she'd been drawn to him. From the very start, she'd been more aware of him than any person she'd known before or since. It was as though there was a force tying them together. No matter how often they parted, they always found each other again.

But now… Now he stood as the lone sentinel between the Starks and the Night King. Brienne knew it was the Night King, not because he looked so very different from the other White Walkers, but because man and White Walker alike gave him a wide birth. The surrounding chaos didn't dare stray too close to the orchestrator of this nightmare.

And the only thing between him and the two youngest remaining Starks, one of whom he sought to destroy, was Jaime Lannister.

Brienne charged forward, blocking and slicing her way through barricade of bodies, barely aware of if it was flesh or ice in her path.

"Let me through. Let me through!" She hollered, for once grateful for her uncommon height. It allowed her to never lose sight of Jaime.

Jaime and the Night King crossed blades again and again in a dance that looked so different from the blundering movements of wildlings who praised force over form. It was like watching a work of art. Swords kissing and clashing in vicious passion. And one wrong move could mean his death. Jaime's two swords move in a practiced partnership that she wouldn't have believed possible.

But as she broke through into the inner circle, the dragon glass sword in Jaime's good hand was knocked from his grip.

It was all she could do to stop herself from crying out to him.

The Night King sent a well placed kick to Jaime's knee, and the one handed knight crumpled.

Taking the advantage, the Night King raised his sword to deal the killing blow. The glittering blade arched through the air to meet its victim.

Instead, it met Oathkeeper.

Blocking the blow sent bone rattling aftershocks through Brienne's arms, but still she held.

Ice blue eyes turned on her.

The Night King took a step back, drawing his sword away.

"Brienne… Don't." Jaime said as she moved into position to face the enemy's next attack.

She could see him struggling to reclaim his feet on his injured leg, using Widow's Wail as a crutch, but kept her attention on her opponent. If she let herself be distracted by Jaime, she knew she wouldn't stand a chance.

She'd faced the Lion of Lannister, the Hound, and so many others to get here. To stand before this man of ice. She'd learned long ago that all men could fall, no matter how big. By the gods, she hoped the same applied to death itself.

"I made a vow," Brienne said to the Night King, ignoring the aching cold of dread in her gut. "You want those kids, you have to go through me."

The Night King inclined his head, whether because he understood her words or just their meaning, she didn't know or particularly care.

In the end, understanding didn't matter. Right and wrong didn't matter. Loyalty and honor didn't matter. Only survival.

For she was all that was left, the shield against the oncoming dark. All that stood between death and everything she loved.

The Starks.

Pod.

_Jaime_.

The Night King's sword struck at her, the first time his full skill and attention was focused in her direction and it caused a terror she'd never known before, but she blocked the strike.

Their blades crossed then crossed again. Every blow making her bones feel close to shattering. He drove her back toward the weirwood tree with a barrage of strikes at such speed and intensity as to put to shame the exquisite swordplay she'd witnessed from Arya and all the brute strength of the Hound.

She was on the defensive and found no opening in which to gain the upper hand. It was merely a game of survival. Treading water against an unstoppable force until she no longer had the strength to fight.

Her arms ached, but still she blocked and blocked again.

As her guard dropped, her arms to weak to defend, the Night King knocked her to the ground.

He swung again, and she blocked.

The Night King kicked her in the chest, knocking her down to the ground. He stomped on her wrist, breaking her grip of Oathkeeper. She howled in pain, feeling bones break beneath the Night King's boot.

"Leave her alone!" Jaime yelled, drawing the Night King's attention momentarily away.

Her opponent turned his back on her, not considering her enough of a threat to concern him.

Brienne took the advantage, scrambling to her blade and grabbing it with her left hand, her right hanging useless at her side.

She crept up behind the Night King, who's attention was fixed on Jaime. She lunged, driving her blade at the base of the Night King's skull.

He sidestepped at the last moment.

She felt something sharp pierce her chest plate. She looked down and saw the rippling blade, twin of her own sword, sticking out of her chest.

_Widow's Wail._

She heard a howl of pain that didn't come from her as she stumbled back in disbelief, the pain growing and swelling and burning like fire as the blade pulled free.

* * *

**To be honest... I'm at a crossroads here. I can see a way forward with Brienne (yay!) and a way forward without her (sobs in the corner). I've been struggling with this choice for a long time and it's making it very hard for me to proceed. To be or not to be... To do the GRR Martian thing or to not kill my favorite character... That is the question. **

**The answer? **

**You tell me.**


	32. Chapter 32: Jon

Arya squinted into the chilled darkness. The fire wasn't enough to keep the cold at bay. She looked around and realized she was in a nearly empty war room, but not Winterfell's war room. A tent, she thought. She looked around and saw Jon sitting at the table.

This was preparations for a battle in the field. But what battle?

"So you've met the enemy. Drawn up your battle plans." Sansa said, stepping into the dim light of the candles.

"Aye, for what they're worth." Jon said, looking tired and aged. Not the boy who'd left Winterfell and not the man who'd returned with Daenerys in the hopes of saving the North.

"You've known him for the space of a single conversation. You and your advisors. And you sit around making your plans on how to defeat a man you don't know." Jon studied Sansa, a sadness in his eyes that Arya had come to recognize as unwanted desire. "I lived with him." Sansa continued. "I know how his mind works. I know how he likes to hurt people." The fury in Sansa's voice was barely contained. "Does it ever once occur to you that I might have some insight."

Ramsay, Arya realized and her blood boiled. She'd never met the man, but he was responsible for the desecration of her ancestral home, the abuse of her sister, and the death of one of her brothers. Had he not been long dead by the time she'd learned of his despicable deeds, she would have added his name to her list. Instead, she had to find solace in the knowledge that Sansa had done what was necessary.

"You're right." Jon conceded.

"If you think he's going to fall into your trap he won't, he's the one who lays traps."

"He's over confident."

"He plays with people." Sansa corrected. "He's far better at it than you are. He's been doing it all his life."

"Aye, and what have I been doing all my life?" Jon stood, annoyed. "Playing with broomsticks? I've fought beyond the wall against worse than Ramsay Bolton. I've defended the wall from worse than Ramsay…"

"You don't know him." Sansa said, each word slow and deliberate, enough to send a chill down Arya's spine.

"Alright, tell me. What should we do? How do we get Rickon back?"

Sansa's expression faltered. "We'll never get him back."

The truth of Sansa's words was like a dagger to Arya's heart. Arya reached over and took Bran's hand.

"Some sacrifices must be made… for the greater good." Bran said. "You understand."

Before the house of black and white, Arya had hungered for vengeance and death and sacrifice meant very little. She'd had an insatiable need to kill those that had wronged her and her family. She'd carried that need back to Westeros with her.

"I do." Arya agreed, though she wished more than anything for the bliss of ignorance.

"Good." Bran nodded.

"I don't think I can do it…" She admitted. "I can't do what needs to be done."

"That's not you."

* * *

Jon leapt from Rhaegal's back, unnerved by the sound of cracking ice as his boots collided with the frozen surface of the Godswood pond. A White Walker struck down a Wilding nearby and charged toward Jon. Rhaegal snapped down on the man of ice, shook him until something cracked louder than the ice and flung the limp body aside.

Jon looked at the great figure of the dragon and gave the beast a grateful nod before plunging into the chaos. He had to get through to Bran, but that was only half the battle. He had to reach his brother and then, some how, get the crippled boy across a battlefield to the safety of the waiting dragon's back. It seemed like an impossible task. But so many of the tasks he'd faced and conquered to get to this point has seemed impossible. Gods, he'd even come back from the dead once. What could be more impossible than that.

With Longclaw in hand, he charged through the madness, blocking what he could, dodging what he couldn't, he didn't care about stopping anyone, only about getting through to his brother.

And, at last, he broke through. A scream of indescribable pain hit him like a wall, and for a moment he thought all was lost.

Then he saw Bran.

Beneath the weirwood tree.

Unharmed.

The crippled boy stared at him as though they were the only two beings in the world, not two brothers separated by the tumult of war.

Jon looked around, grounding himself in his surroundings.

Brienne, in her rightful place between the Starks and destruction, was on all fours, blood dripping from a wound Jon couldn't see, boring a hole into the snow. Jamie stood, frozen, his mouth open in a silent scream, blood dripping from the blade locked in his metal hand.

Podrick Payne diving to his knees beside the lady he served, howling in a sorrow too profound for words.

And the Night King, watching it all with something akin to amusement in his cold eyes.

_Don't you dare be a hero_, Sansa's words echoed in his mind.

He didn't want to be the hero. Didn't want to sacrifice it all for the sake of honor and duty, but time and time again, that was exactly what he did. If he was honest, it felt like the purpose he'd been born for. No peace or happiness has been long lasting. He'd never imagined growing old. Even when he'd taken up the black, he'd never imagined himself in that black when his own hair had turned the color of snow. He'd always thought his life was meant to be bloody and brief and spent in the service of others.

Then Sam told him everything he thought was fundamentally wrong.

That, had Robert's Rebellion gone the other way, he might even now be sitting upon the Iron Throne.

And he didn't want it.

All he wanted was a peaceful life. To lay down his weapons of war and grow old with the woman he cherished. All he wanted was a fate that fell somewhere between the bastard and the prince.

Then the Night King turned toward Jon, the weirwood tree and Bran between them. Once again, Jon's gaze met that of death incarnate. Surely this was it, the moment that the Lord of Light had seen fit to bring him back for, the early death he'd always expected. In service of his fellow man.

"Not today."

A hand caught his arm. He looked around, surprised by the touch. His eyes met their match.

"Arya."

Her lips pressed into a thin, sad smile.

"This fight is not yours to win, Jon." Arya said, she sniffed hard and he realized that she was crying.

"We have to get to Bran. Get him out." Jon said. "I'll carry him, you clear a path."

She shook her head. "You know nothing."

He frowned at her in confusion. The words were so familiar, but felt so wrong coming from her.

"Bran…" Jon started.

"We'll never get him back." Arya said.

Her words felt like a knife to his heart.

"We can get him out." Jon said, though he knew, as he had when Sansa had given him the same warning about Rickon that his words weren't true.

"No, Jon." Arya said. "We can't."

Jon looked back at the great tree and Bran beneath it.

"I don't understand," He said.

"I do." Arya said. "Trust me."

A spray of ice shards showered him suddenly and Jon looked back to see Tormund behind him. The wildling's face split in a wide grin.

"If it isn't the god of small peckers."

"We have to get to Rhaegal." Arya said to Tormund. "Can you get us through?"

Tormund glanced back at the fighting. "Aye, I can do that."

Jon looked back at his brother once more as Arya grabbed his arm and drew him away.

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**Please review!**


	33. Chapter 33: Brienne

"Brienne, Ser Brienne."

Wet and icy gloves grabbed at Brienne's face, making what might have been a comforting touch, chilly and unpleasant. She looked up to see Podrick's head bowed and shoulders shaking with sorrow.

She was in a great deal less pain than she expected. If this was dying, it wasn't so bad. With the blade out, it was less a blinding pain and more of a deep, throbbing ache. There was a pressure in her chest making every breath feel heavy. But the pain was manageable.

She felt herself ripped from Pod's grip and pulled up to her knees. She gasped in pain at the movement, but then her eyes met Jaime's and for a moment, nothing seemed quite so bad, not even the wretched sound of her breathing.

"You stupid wench. You're not supposed to be here."

"Came… for you." Brienne managed between gasps.

Jaime shook his head and then rested his forehead against hers for a long moment. He reached to unfasten her armor, but she stopped him. She felt the heat of her blood pooling behind her chest plate. While she didn't know the extent of the damage, she couldn't imagine a sword to the chest was an overly good start.

"Don't." She whispered. There were greater stakes at play than the fate of one woman, even if that fate was her own. She'd sworn to lay down her life if the need arose, and if this was that moment, she would willingly meet her doom for the greater good. If one night as a Knight, as a woman loved by the man she cherished, was all she could claim as her own, she would count herself a blessed woman.

There were worse ways to die.

"Let me see."

"The Starks…"

"I don't give a fuck about the Starks." Jaime snapped.

She shook her head. "I do."

"Fuck loyalty." His eyes were wild and she wondered if he'd ever suffered a loss in battle of someone he truly cared for.

"Survival." She said, with each breath so hard to catch, she didn't see the point in wasting them on unnecessary words.

"Fuck survival." Jaime brushed her hair from her face. "I only care about yours."

She tightened her grip on his hand. Had there ever been anyone outside his family that he cared enough about to care about losing before? She thought perhaps not. When had that changed? When had her survival grown to mean more to him than his own? More to him than humanity itself?

"For me." She said. "End this… for me."

Jaime's gaze locked on hers and he finally seemed to really see her. In the place of blinding despair, she saw resolve take root.

"For you." He agreed.

He kissed her hard and then was gone.

Tears stung her eyes as he left her field of vision. Gods preserve that fool of a man. He wasn't a good man, but she loved him all the same.

Before the ghost of his kiss had cooled from her lips, Pod was again at her side.

"Lady… Ser… what would you have me do?"

She knew she could order him back into the fray and that he would obediently go, but she found that she didn't want him to. She felt a certain peace knowing one of the people she loved best was by her side and safe.

Perhaps it was selfish, but she thought if she could let go of the man she loved in what could be her dying hour she at least deserved to keep her best friend.

She took the squires hand and squeezed it firmly.

"Stay?"

"To the end." Pod promised.

Then her gaze fell to Oathkeeper, dropped to the ground beside her when she fell. The blade, she now realized, was glowing faintly.

As Jaime has warned her: you don't get to choose who you love. But she wouldn't change where her love had flourished if she could. Not for all the pain it had caused. Not even now with a hole in her chest. She would love Jaime Lannister until her last breath. Longer if the gods allowed it. And she'd learned the hard way once that nothing was more hateful than failing to protect the one she love.

While there was life left in her, he would not be alone.

Like the swords they carried that had once been one, they were two halves of a whole. They were stronger together.

"Help me… up." She gasped heavily to Pod.

* * *

**This and the next few chapters will be short due to the need to shift perspectives as events unfold. Hope they contain enough excitement to make up for the lack of length.**

**In other sadder news, I'm going to try to maintain my weekly updates, but my grandpa passed away yesterday and I've got a lot to take care of as a result so I'm not sure what the next couple weeks will hold. I apologize in advance if I miss an update here and there, but I'll do my best to keep posting!**


	34. Chapter 34: Daenerys

"I didn't mean it." Daenerys said, her voice quivered sounding small and childish even to her own ears as she and Varys wound their way through the dim crypts lit only by the torch in the Spider's hand. The flickering light of the flames glittered off the rings on his hand.

The perfumed, bald man hadn't said a word since he'd sent Brienne to the godswood to aid the Starks.

Not a word passed his lips as he guided her by the arm across the overrun yard of Winterfell and down into the crypts.

As they passed through tunnels littered with bodies and the cold sightless eyes of the stone faced Starks of old, she was left alone with her own tattered and tangled thoughts. And every thought drifted back to Jorah. He'd been by her side at her greatest triumphs as well as her darkest despair. He was her oldest friend and truest ally. He'd been friend, family, and so much more. When he'd returned cured of greyscale, a part of her had grown comfortable with his seeming imperviousness. He'd survived the unsurvivable. She realized now that a part of her believed he always would.

It was easy to keep someone at arms length when you believed there would always be time to change you mind. But time was up. The battle for the dawn had stolen what she thought she could never lose. In the wake of such a profound loss, the very earth beneath her feet seemed no longer steady.

How could she be held accountable for word or action brought on when her very foundation had crumbled?

They hurried down the tunnels, the occasional evacuee elbowing past them in their rush to escape the threat of the dead, unaware that the small, filth covered woman they pushed aside was their queen. Not, she realized, that they would care if they did.

There were not small folks toasting in secret to their rightful queen. Birthright meant nothing to those who's greatest concern was keeping their family fed and safe from a seemingly endless war.

"I said I didn't mean it." She said, her voice more steady.

Varys stopped so suddenly that she crashed into his back. He turned around and looked her evenly in the eye. She met his gaze for a long moment, but there was something in his eyes that made her uneasy and she looked down.

"But you said it." He said, as calmly as if they were discussing a simple trade agreement between two prosperous and peaceful kingdoms. Despite the calm, she felt the condemnation underneath.

Whatever favor she'd had with the spymaster was gone.

"I was distraught." She stammered. "Jorah…"

"Do you think composure is something a monarch needs only in times of peace?" He asked. "You are what you choose in your weakest moments. You're remembered for what you do when the choice is hard, not when it's easy. Your father did great things during his reign, but all anyone remembers is a mad king. Robert brought a impressive period of peace and prosperity. All anyone remembers is the fat and drunken king killed by a boar."

Daenerys nodded and began to walk again. "I understand."

Varys pulled her to a stop. "No offense meant, but you don't. Do you know how you'd be remembered if you died tonight?"

She shook her head.

"Not as Daenerys Stormborn. Not as the breaker of chains or the mother of Dragons. No, you would be the Mad Queen. Like father like daughter. Your legacy is the choices you make in your darkest hour.""

"I didn't…"

"Mean it." Varys finished for her. "So you said. But that doesn't change the fact that a part of you did in fact mean it. You, my dear queen, are very much like an old friend of mine. You would let the world burn if you could be queen of the ashes. And that, my dear queen, is why you will never be a good ruler."

Daenerys recoiled. She was not accustomed to being chastised like a foolish child and instinctively wanted to spurn his harsh words. Still… as stinging and bitter as they tasted, they rang true.

"You serve me, Lord Varys." She reminded him, but there was no bite in her words.

"No, your grace, I serve the realm. My allegiance to you lasts only so long as your agenda remains aligned with the realms best interest."

"That makes you a fickle friend."

"I did not seek you out to be your friend, your grace."

They turned a corner and ahead by faint torch light, she saw an opening. Bodies were piled up and the opening was slim, barely large enough for one big man to squeeze through. Gendry Waters stood at the mouth of the opening, almost unrecognizable beneath the layers of blood and filth, helping man after man out the opening as a hand reached down from above, pulling them up and out.

A burst of relief exploded in her chest, surging out in an almost hysterical giggle.

"We're saved."

Something slammed into her, knocking her hard into the wall of the tunnel. Dazed, it took her a moment to regain her senses. When she had, she turned to see the source of the attack.

Where she'd stood, she found Vary, swaying unsteadily.

Across his middle spread a wide, gaping smile of split flesh, his guts held in by now of his own pale, jeweled hands. The torch flickering on the stone floor.

On the ground before him lay, slain for the second time that night, Ser Jorah. A dragon glass knife stuck out of the wight's eye.

A wail rose up in Daenerys's throat, but she bit it back as the Spider stumbled back.

"Lord Varys." She caught him under the arm but she could do little more than slow the large man's fall. Her elbow hit stone as she fell with him and she hissed in pain.

Varys looked down at his bloody hands, a strange expression claiming his face.

Daenerys reached toward the wound, but she knew there was not use. The Master of Whispers would die.

"To live by the pen but die by the sword." Varys coughed and blood bubbled to his lips.

Daenerys considered advising him to strength, but she didn't supposed it mattered if he lived for seconds or for minutes. The color seemed to be draining from his face before her eyes, his parlor always pale but now tinged with gray.

"Thank you." She whispered, realizing that though he no longer had faith in her as a queen he'd still protected her life with no thought of his own.

"You're not…" Varys choked.

"What?"

"You're not the last Targaryen." He finished. "There's another… one with a better claim. He… he could break the wheel."

Daenerys recoiled at the dying man's words.

"That's impossible."

"You are your choices…" Varys's words slowed, dragging with the effort. "Choose better."

She opened her mouth to speak but found herself lost for words.

"Milady!"

She looked up as Gendry Waters knelt beside her. When she look back, Varys's gaze had left her, drifting off into the blank void of death.

She was no stranger to violent ends, but her stomach churned.

_You're not the last Targaryen._

Was it true? She's come all this way… To Westeros… to the North… because she was the last Targaryen. She'd come because the Iron Throne was hers by right. But what if Varys spoke the truth? What if the very story she'd built her identity upon was nothing more than a lie. Could she set aside her claim for another whose right was greater? If she didn't, was she any better than the usurpers who'd sullied the seat since the overthrow of her family?

If she wasn't the last Targaryen… who was she?

"He's gone, milady." Gendry said, helping her to her feet.

She didn't bother to correct how he addressed her. Didn't bother to tell him she was his queen not some lady.

His hand wrapped around hers and pulled her in the direction of their escape from this horrible place, but she didn't know if it mattered anymore. Something of her had died this terrible night. Something she didn't have a name for, but mourned regardless.

Gendry hoisted her up through the opening and the Hound wrapped an arm beneath hers and pulled her through the opening.

"Thought you were dead." The Hound growled in her ear as he set her on what she realized was a pile of dead wights.

She didn't bother to respond and he didn't wait for one, instead, he ducked back through the opening and hefted out Gendry.

"You're a mad cunt, you know that?" The Hound said to the the boy. To Daenerys's surprise it sounded like a compliment despite the words spoken. The bastard from King's Landing chuckled and then wearily rose to his feet. He looked over at Daenerys and held out a hand to her.

"Let's get you somewhere safe, milady."

She slipped her hand into his and let him pull her to her feet.

"Are you hurt?" Gendry asked.

She shook her head but said nothing as they walked into the dark woods, surprisingly peaceful on such a night.

"'Course not." The Hound said. "Queens don't get hurt in wars. They stand by while others bleed on their behalf."

Daenerys looked at him, shocked by the audacity of his words. She'd stayed and fought while the majority of the women fled.

"Don't mind him." Gendry said. "He doesn't mean what he says."

The Hound scratched at some blood drying on the horribly disfigured side of his face.

"Hells I don't." He said. "The day I bow to another monarch is the day they find one who's not made of the same horse shit as the rest of them."

A roar shattered the silence of the woods. Daenerys looked up and saw the underbelly of a dragon circling low.

"One of yours?" Gendry asked, an understandable flash of fear crossing his face.

"Drogon." She said with a nod, the warmth of fire slowly building in her veins and the barest hint of a smile rising to the surface as the crippling doubt subsided.

Perhaps Varys had spoken the truth and perhaps he hadn't. She face the ramifications if his words proved true when they came. But until then, she knew who she was, who she'd been long before she thought to call herself a queen.

She was Daenerys Stormborn, mother of dragons.

Of that she was as certain as she was that this night would eventually end and the sun would rise to the East.

"Gather the survivors." She said, her voice steady to her own ears for the first time in a long while. "Make for shore with as much haste as you can. I'll burn back as many of the dead as I can then I'll fly Iron Islands. Reach the shore and ships will be waiting with aid and supplies. I swear it."

Gendry glanced uncertainly at the Hound but then nodded. "Yes, milady."

"Khaleesi." She corrected, feeling a swell of familiarity at the title Jorah had always preferred, even when she'd taken to calling herself a queen. "Winterfell is lost but the night is not. The dead do not win so long as there is breath in our lungs. Do not lose hope."

The Hound grumbled something she couldn't make out, but Gendry nodded. "Yes, Khaleesi."

* * *

**Thank you for your kind messages regarding my grandpa. It's been a pretty difficult two weeks for a number of reasons, but I'm glad to be back to writing. I'm excited to say we're about 5 chapters away from the end of this episode. The POV for 4 of those chapters is set in stone, but if there's anyone you're dying to see before the end of the episode, let me know and I'll see what I can swing!**


	35. Chapter 35: Jon

When they reached Rhaegal, Jon boosted Arya and she clamored up the treacherous scales as though she'd done it a hundred times before. Jon doubted whether he'd ever look so practiced, despite the fact that he was the one Rhaegal was actually allowing to ride him.

Behind him, Tormund bellowed in an unintelligible war cry as he cut down the last pursuing White Walker.

The redheaded wildling looked back at Jon and gave him a wide grin.

"Not so bad."

Jon forced a smile, but his heart wasn't in it, not when the guilt of cowardice clawed at his insides.

_You know nothing, Jon Snow._

He'd left Bran. Arya told him to, but he should have refused.

_You know nothing, Jon Snow._

A deep woman's scream ripped through the night.

Tormund's eyes widened and he looked back in the direction of the Weirwood tree, too distant to make out any details.

"The big woman." He ran a hand through his wild hair, a look of purpose blazing in his eyes. "I have to go back."

"Tormund." Jon called after him as the wilding started to run back into the madness.

"Let him go." Arya said, reaching down to place a hand on Jon's shoulder.

He shrugged her off and looked up into his sister's dark eyes.

"Let him go? Leave Bran behind?" He shook his head. "What's happened to you? Bran is our brother."

"You don't understand."

"He told us that all that mattered was keeping the Three-eyed Raven out of the Night King's grasp." Jon snapped, reaching down and grasping the hilt of Longclaw. "I'm going back."

"If you go back, then all of this will be in vain." Arya said. "All that matters is protecting the Three-eyed Raven. Bran understands that better than anyone."

"Bran is the Three-eyed Raven."

Arya's expression darkened, "Not anymore."

"Not anymore?" Jon stared at her in confusion. "What do you mean."

"Bran's no longer the Three-eyed Raven." She repeated. "I am."

Understanding like dread slid over him in an icy shower. It all made sense. Bran's insisting to come to the Godswood to draw in the Night King. It had seemed so reckless after his revelation that the Night King's aim was to reach and destroy the Three-eyed Raven. And it was supposed to appear so. It was supposed to be too tempting to resist. Bran was marked. There was no where he could run that the Night King could no follow. So the Three-eyed Raven came up with a different plan. A decoy. War was a game of strategy, after all. And sometimes a piece must be sacrificed to win the game.

"There has to be another way." Jon said, shivering despite his numbness to the cold.

"There isn't." Arya said. "Bran understands that. And now so do you."

"He's our brother." The pain in his chest was worse than when his brothers in the Night's Watch had stabbed him over an over. He'd made similar sacrifices in the past, accepting the loss of a few to save many, but this… this was family. This was Bran. Ned Stark's last son.

"He knew exactly what he was doing and what it would mean." Arya said, extending her hand in an offer of help up. "We must go now."

Jon looked back, one last time, and then took Arya's hand, knowing this was a moment he would never be able to look back on without shame.

For doing the wrong thing for the right reasons did nothing to ease the guilt of the wrong thing done. He would do what he had to do. He would save the Three-eyed Raven, even if the price was Bran.

He felt ill as he slid into place on Rhaegal's neck behind Arya and the dragon launched into the sky.

Sansa would never forgive him.

He'd never forgive himself.

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**Sorry for another delayed chapter. 2020 keeps taking cheap shots. Every time I think things have settled out there's another bump. I'm still here, though, and hard at work!**


	36. Chapter 36: Jaime

_I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. _Another oath broken. The first one he'd been sure he'd be able to keep all the rest of his days. But he broke it just the same.

His blood had run cold the moment Widow's Wail cut through Brienne's armor. Not even Lannister gold could buy armor to match Valyrian Steel.

He had never intended to cause her harm. He'd never meant to be the reason for her pain. In truth, he'd intended to dedicate his life, for however long it lasted, to preventing anything from causing her pain. He'd come to realize that she was the human embodiment of his honor, his courage, and his purpose. And now her blood was upon his hands.

He'd sooner fall upon his own sword.

At Brienne's bidding, he rose to his feet, feeling as numb as a corpse, but powered with something more than his own will. Her will had always been the stronger of the two after all.

He felt the weight of Widow's Wail locked in his metal grip, an extension of his own arm, but couldn't bring himself to look at the blade, not when he knew who's blood he'd see dripping from its length.

_End this. _Her commanded echoed in his head like the pounding of war drums. A steady, thrumming rhythm with which his heart kept time. A rhythm that would continue until his own heart stopped beating. For if Brienne's stopped by his hand, he wanted no more of this life. If the gods had any mercy, they wouldn't be so cruel as to let him draw even one breath after hers had ceased.

_How do you know there is an afterwards?_

Had Bran known even then in the Godswood that it would come to this? He'd warned Jaime that he'd receive his justice during the long night. He'd assumed it was a warning of his own, perhaps deserved, demise. That he could have accepted. But Brienne… Brienne who'd been nothing but good and honorable, who was truly the best of them… For her to die. For him to lose her by his own hand… the very hand he'd lost in her defense ever so long ago.

All his past sins. All the heinous things he'd done for love. All the blood on his hands. Was Brienne's life the price for his penance? No… There was no wrong he could imagine that equaled this cost. The price was a weight he couldn't bare to pay. There was no justice in a world without Ser Brienne of Tarth.

The Night King approached Bran.

Jaime wasn't sure what had become of Arya, but the boy was alone, his eyes no longer rolled back in his head, instead, the dark eyes of the Stark boy met his. The terror in those eyes chilled him to his core. Those were not the eyes of the Three-eyed Raven who looked through him with dispassionate disinterest. No, this was a gaze that had haunted him for years… one he remembered with the burning heat of shame.

The gaze of a terrified boy caught in a tangled web of another's making and doomed to pay the price for it. The eyes of Bran Stark.

By the gods, some prices were too steep, even for love.

Jaime let out a roar and charged the Night King.

He slammed into the monstrous man, tackling him into the snow. The Night King writhed and twisted and the two bodies rolled over and over until the Night King pinned him to the ground.

The Night King drew a dagger and pressed it down toward Jaime's heart. Jaime blocked the blade, holding it at bay with his one hand, but the Night King pressed his advantage, the blade digging into Jaime's armor despite his effort to hold the blade back.

The Night King was too strong and Jaime realized that despite his intentions he would fail Brienne's last command as well. He did not have the strength to end this, not even for the love he bore the lady knight. He was just one man. One crippled old knight. It was his justice to die forgotten or remember for his faults and failings. He would be nothing but a footnote in the Lord Commander's great book of brothers and a stain on his family's legacy.

He closed his eyes and conjured Brienne's face to his mind and the brief bright moment when he'd dared to let himself believe that there was time enough to become more than his worse deeds. Perhaps, he couldn't die in the arms of the woman he loved, but the last thing he'd see would be her blue eyes. The sapphires of Tarth. And that was enough. It would have to be.

_Your crimes are past forgiveness, Kingslayer._

The weight pressing down on him was gone in an instant. He heard Brienne scream and his eyes snapped open. A hand grabbed his crippled arm and pulled him up. His gaze met Pod's as the loyal squire helped him to his feet.

"Brienne!" He'd have known the sound of her voice anywhere, her screams still haunted him when his nightmares took him back to the night he lost his hand.

He looked around and found the wench pinning the Night King to the trunk with what strength she had left.

He started after her, to aid her, but Pod stopped him. He whirled on the squire, ready to strike the boy for slowing him.

"She said you'd need this." Pod held the pommel of the sister sword of Widow's Wail. Oathkeeper. Two halves of a whole, much like their masters. Much like he'd always mistakenly believed himself and Cersei to be.

But the blade glowed red like it had been left in a blacksmith's forge.

Jaime took the sword, the hilt hot even through his glove.

Brienne was as strong as an ox, but surely not even she could hold the Night King for longer than a few moments, especially not with such a severe wound.

She hollered in pain as the Night King threw her off and fell in a crumpled heap several feet away.

His heart urged her to run to her, but her words echoed in his mind.

_End this._

The Night King held out his arms, palms upturned as though calling some force from the earth.

From Jaime's peripherals he saw the forms of dead wildlings moving.

More dead. The fucking bastard was bringing back more dead.

Jaime adjusted his grip on Oathkeeper and raised Widow's Wail.

Perhaps he couldn't keep half the oath's he'd sworn, but this one he could.. or he'd die trying.

"Kingslayer."

Jaime flinched at the nickname and glanced in the direction of the voice that had spoken it. His eyes fell upon Bran, equidistant between himself and the Night King.

He itched to face the monster at hand, but something in Bran Stark's dark eyes held him frozen.

"Slayer of Kings. You were born for this purpose." Bran said. Then he drew a slow, steadying breath. "And so was I."

The boy's eyes rolled back in his head so that Jaime could only see their whites.

Jaime looked past the crippled boy and his fallen Lady Knight.

At the base of the Weirwood Tree stood the Night King. But instead of icy blue, his eyes were as white as Bran. Jaime looked at the twin swords in his grip, both glowing red.

And Jaime, slowest of the Lannister though he was, finally understood.

_Ser Jaime Lannister… Someone forgot to write down all your great deeds._

_There's still time._

Jaime, not knowing how long Bran's control would last, charged forward, driving both swords through the heart of the Night King and deep into the Weirwood Tree.

The heat in the hilt of Oathkeeper soared, forcing him to let go. He reached over to unclasp his metal grip, but found the heat melting the metal. He scrambled to release his stump from the melting contraption and stumbled back as flames engulfed the Weirwood Tree.

He stared in wonder as the flames swallowed up the figure of the Night King, but his attention was drawn away by the sound of Brienne's pained gasp. He rushed to her side and with Pod's help they got her to her feet and the three staggered away from the growing flames.

"Bran." Brienne coughed when they were far enough to escape the worst of the heat.

"I'll get him." Jaime promised and pressed back into the blistering heat. He shielded his face from the heat with his arms and stumbled blindly in the direction of Bran's wheeled chair.

When he reached the chair, he clapped the boy's shoulder.

Bran's head lulled forward. Jaime grabbed his chin and found blood running down his face leaking from the corners of his eyes which were wide and blank in death.

Despite the burning heat, Jaime's insides turned cold.

_A single man can tip the scales._ Bran had said in this very spot. _You'll receive your justice before the long night ends._

Tears streamed down Jaime's face. Twice had Bran Stark's life ended at Jaime Lannister's hands. Once to mask his sins. Once to absolve him of them.

"Sometimes the price is too high." Jaime whispered to the dead boy. "Sometimes the wrong person pays it."

Jaime backed away, and retreated to the waiting forms of Brienne and Pod.

Beyond them, there was no sign of the newly risen dead, but Jaime couldn't bring himself care about them or anything other than the two living before him.

Brienne knelt on one knee, one arm draped over Podrick's shoulders as she drew rattling, painful sounding breaths.

As the snow crunched beneath Jaime's boots, she looked up, her blue eyes pooling with tears at the sight of him alone.

"Bran?"

Jaime shook his head.

He sank to the ground and eased Brienne down, so her head was cradled in his lap. He brushed her sweat and blood dampened hair from her face. An awful mark marred her cheek and her face was screwed up in pain. She was never a pretty woman, but the wound did nothing to improve her appearance.

But she was Brienne. His Brienne.

She reached up and took his hand.

"Is it… done?"

"It's done."

A grimace that might have been a smile tightened her lips.

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her clammy forehead.

"Stay with me." He whispered into her hair, praying to whatever god might hear and care that they might not take the woman from him, the good woman he didn't deserve but who loved him anyway. The gods had tormented with the love of a hateful woman. They'd watched as he was twisted into something hateful to match. Then they brought him a good woman and twisted him back. But what good was any of it, what good was victory if the gods took back his good woman?

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**I'm sorry, I know it's been a while since my update and I'm not sure when the next one will be. July and the beginning of August were really rough with several personal losses. I've been reeling and finding it very hard to sit down and write anything. However, this story is till very important to me and it is my plan to finish as long as you all stay with me! I hope 2020 has been less of a disaster for all of you!**


	37. Chapter 37: Jon

Rhaegal glided low over the wreckage of what had just the morning before been a caravan of refugee women, children, and elderly. Now the smashed remains of wagons and the strewn bodies of people and horses, where unrecognizable as the band Jon had seen off so few hours ago, though now it felt like a lifetime.

The first fingers of dawn stretched across the sky, lifting the world from pitch black to murky grays, which did nothing to lighten the grim sight below.

Jon's stomach twisted and bile burned his throat as they passed ever lower over body after body. Was one of the unrecognizable corpses Sansa? How would he possibly know from this height? Every time he caught a glimpse of red in the faint light his heart lurched in desperate panic.

He'd made his choice in the midst of battle, He'd chosen to end the fight rather than retreat in hopes of rescuing the one he held most dear. Even now, he knew it had been the right choice, perhaps even the only choice he could make. But was good was right if it was a choice he couldn't live with?

If she was gone, truly gone, how could he possibly carry on?

What good was the dawn, if it brought a lifetime of days without Sansa?

"And so the long night ends." Arya murmured close to his ear. He barely heard her over the whipping wind, but somehow the soft words cut through and sent a shiver down his spine.

"The Night King is dead?" He asked.

"He is no more." Arya agreed.

"Good." Jon said. "The dead are beaten."

"No." Arya said. "Death can never be beaten, simply held at bay."

Cold dread filled his gut. "You mean they'll be back?"

"Not today."

Not today. The words did little to comfort him, but he'd take it. Perhaps the long night had never been about victory, but simply survival. Perhaps the best anyone could ask was for was one more day, a boon which had been denied to many good men and women that night.

At the sight of commotion ahead, Jon edged the great dragon down to a clearing beside the road.

He saw a flash of red and flung himself from Rhaegal's back before the dragon's feet had touched the ground. His boots collided with the icy earth sending a jarring jolt through his body which reminded him rather brutally of the many injuries he'd been ignoring.

He didn't bother to help Arya down, trusting that she'd manage. Instead, he sprinted for the road.

His heart tightened painfully at the sight of hair he'd recognize anywhere.

Sansa knelt beside a cart, her back to him. He wanted call to her, but his voice was lodged in his throat.

He'd left Bran in the godswood. He'd let her last living brother die. He didn't know how she could forgive that or if he even wanted her. He most certainly couldn't forgive himself.

"She's quite the remarkable woman."

Jon started and looked down to find Tyrion at his side, arm tied up in a makeshift sling.

"Oh?"

"While all the rest of us fled like fowl, she stood her ground in the face of nightmares. She killed a White Walker." Tyrion said, an unreadable expression darkened his scarred face. "She didn't even know how to hold the knife and yet she killed it."

"Desperation can make ordinary people do extraordinary things." Jon said.

"I think not." Tyrion said. "It simply separates the two, like oil in water."

Jon felt that the Imp was ready to slip into a great theological debate, but he had no patience for wisdom. All he knew was that Sansa was before him, and as much as he wanted to take her into his arms, he couldn't seem to make his limbs move.

"Well, I'm glad you survived, Lord Tyrion." Jon said to end their conversation.

"Indeed." Tyrion said, and Jon couldn't help but notice the well wish was not returned. He didn't think much of it, he wasn't sure he was glad he'd survived either.

Sansa, however, he was entirely sure of. He took slow, measured steps toward her. Her attention was fixed on the work before her and as he drew closer he realized she was tending to one of the wounded. When he was close enough to recognize Ironborn armor, he knew to whom she tended without needing to see Theon Greyjoy's familiar face.

He stopped then and watched her. He wasn't entirely sure how he'd spotted her with the muck and mire that dulled her copper locks to a filthy brown. He couldn't imagine he looked any better. But he could imagine how happy she'd be to see him. Until she learned of her brother's fate and the part he'd played in it.

As he watched, he noticed her stiffen and then she looked around. Her eyes met his and she squeezed Theon's hand, murmuring something Jon couldn't hear before gathering up her skirts and rising to her feet. She stared at Jon for a moment, some inner battle waging across her expression, before sprinting across the space separating them. She flung herself into his arms and he drew her close, holding on so tight that it would take a legion to pull her from his grasp. He buried his face in her hair and felt tears sting his eyes. Her hair did not smell fresh or even pleasant, but he didn't care. Beneath the grime and blood and the heavy sent of horses was his Sansa. And with her back in his arms, nothing else mattered.

He pulled away enough to kiss her forehead, then cheeks, then lips. The worry that they might be seen and judged, the furthest thought from his mind.

Sansa left out a sob against his lips.

He knew he should have stopped before all pretext of a reunion of brother and sister was utterly lost, but the idea of not touching her was an impossibility. His lips wandered to her jaw and he closed his eyes, letting himself be lost in the feel of her skin against his own, a feeling he'd been certain was lost to him forever.

As his fevered desperation to touch her cooled to contentment at the feel of her warm and real in his arms, he let out a long, grateful breath.

He rested his forehead against hers and just held on, quite certain he would be the happiest man in the world if he never had to let go again.

"Winterfell?" She asked.

"Fallen."

She drew a sharp breath, something close to a sob.

"And the battle?"

"The dawn is ours."

He felt her fingers winding in his curls and couldn't help a little smile at the sensation.

"So it's over?" She sighed. "We can go home?"

He shook his head. "Winterfell is no longer defensible. If the Lannisters march North."

Sansa nodded in understanding. There was no going home. They may have survive the dead, but the price was steep.

"Then we push on to the Iron Islands." She said and he could tell her mind was already hard at work on formulating a new plan. "You'll go ahead with Bran. Fly him to safety and come back with supplies to replace what we've lost."

"Sansa…"

She looked into his dark eyes and her expression change at the sight of what she found there.

"Tell me."

"Bran."

"What of Bran."

"He is dead." Arya's voice interjected.

Sansa took an instinctive step away from Jon at the sound of her sister's voice. Her eyes flicked between Jon and Arya.

"No." She said. "He can't be. He said the Night King couldn't capture the three-eyed raven or all would be lost. We won. He can't be dead."

She looked to Jon for support, but he couldn't meet her gaze. He wanted more than anything to ease her pain, but his own guilt weight too heavy and he feared if she looked too close she would see it.

"He's not dead. We have to go back for him." Sansa said, her voice firm but trembling. "He's the three-eyed raven."

"I am the three-eyed raven." Arya corrected. "Bran sacrificed himself so I would endure."

Jon heard the slap before the sight registered. Sansa winced and cradled her hand, and though the one struck, Arya didn't even react.

"No." Sansa said, her voice low with rage. "If what you say is true, you can't have her. You took my brother. You won't have my sister."

"I am now the three-eyed raven, Sansa. I was once no one. But I have always been and always will be Arya Stark of Winterfell."

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**Sorry for the wait, but thus ends episode 3! 2020 continues to kick my butt and it's been a bit of a challenge to make myself sit down and write. But I'm still here and I'm still writing. It may be slow, but I'll continue working on this story as long as you all continue to want to read it.**


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